CHAPTER VIII
THE LAST OF STRANGEWAYS
Granger returned to his shack and, closing the door, sat down besidethe stove in his accustomed place. He commenced to fill his pipeslowly, stretching out his legs as if he were preparing for a longnight of late hours and thoughtfulness. But he could not rest, hiswhole sensitiveness was listening and alert; the muscles of his bodytwitched, as if rebuking him for the delay which he imposed on them.He was expecting to hear a cry; whose cry, and called forth by whatagony, he did not dare to surmise, only he must get there before itwas too late. Somewhere between his shack and the Forbidden River hemust get before the agony began. He rose up, and putting on his capoteand snowshoes hurriedly, went out following Strangeways' trail. He hadno time to realise the folly of his action--this leaving of his storeunguarded and setting forth without an outfit at a season of the yearwhen, perhaps, within a week the ice would break. He did not considerhow far he might have to follow before he could hope to come up withStrangeways; nor what Strangeways would think of and do with him if,turning on a sudden his head, he should see the man who had lied tohim coming swiftly up behind. He would probably shoot him; but Grangerin his frenzy to save Strangeways' life did not think of that. Hisbrain was throbbing with this one thought, that if he did not catchhim up before he reached the Forbidden River, he would have seen thelast of him alive which any man would ever see in this world, unlessthat man were Spurling.
So now there were three men spread out across the ice, two of whomfollowed in the other's steps. The first man was racing to preservehis own life, the second was pursuing to take it, and the third wasfollowing with all his strength that he might save the pursuer's lifefrom danger. Of these three the last man alone had no fear of death.The other two were so eager to live, and one of them took such delightin life! Yet, Strangeways was rushing to his destruction as fast asthat evil yellow-faced beast, tugging at the traces with might andmain, could take him--to where beneath the ice, or in some forestambush, lay crouched the hidden death. And if he should die, whosefault would that be? Granger was man enough to answer, "The faultwould be mine. I told him untruth till he could not believe me when Ispoke the truth which would save his life."
Now that he was left solitary again, he resumed that old habit oflonely men of arguing with himself. Between each hurrying stride, hepanted out within his brain his unspoken words, his thoughts gaspingone behind the other as if his very mind was out of breath. Why hadSpurling come back? Why hadn't he killed all ten huskies outright, andso prevented Strangeways from pursuing farther until the break-up ofthe ice? He would have gained a month by that. His deed bore about itsigns of the ineffectual cunning of the maniac; it had been only worththe doing if carried out bitterly to the end. Yet Spurling had notgone mad; he was too careful of his life and future happiness topermit himself to do that. Then he must have done it for a threat,hoping by the daring and grim humour of his brutality to strike terrorinto Strangeways and warn him back. Perhaps this was only one of manysuch experiences which had occurred all along the trail from Selkirk,and the pursuer had recognised both the motive and the challenge.Well, if you're compelled to play the game of life-taking, you may aswell keep your temper, and set about it sportsmanly with a jest. Evenin this horrid revelation of character there was some of the oldSpurling left.
Then his thoughts turned to Strangeways. He wondered, had he lied ortold the truth when he asserted that the body was not Mordaunt's whichwas found at Forty-Mile? He hoped for the best, but he doubted. Hismanner had been against it, and so had Spurling's; they had both beenkeeping something back. Perhaps he had lied out of jealousy, becausehe could not endure to think that this girl, for whom he had beensearching, who now was dead, had been loved by another man--and not aworthy man either, but one whom he despised.
(Granger knew that he also would have felt like that. The mere denialof such a fact would have seemed somehow to reserve her more entirelyfor himself.)
He had not been able to bear the thought that, now that she was beyondreach of all men's search, her memory should be shared with him byanother man with an equal quality of affection--it had seemed to himlike her hand stretched out from the grave to strip him of the fewmementoes of her which he had. For these reasons he might even havelied truthfully, being self-persuaded that this Jervis Mordaunt was adifferent girl.
Granger heartily hoped that his suspicions might be mistaken, but. . . Whatever happened he must come up with him, and ask him thatquestion once again. Maybe last time he had not spoken plainly;Strangeways had not grasped what he meant. He could not remember howhis question had been phrased, but this time it should be worded withsuch brutal frankness that there could be no chance of error. He wouldlay hold of him strongly, and clasp him about the knees so that hecould not escape. He would never release his hold till his doubts hadbeen set at rest. He would say to him quite clearly, "I loved a girlin the Klondike who called herself Jervis Mordaunt; she passed for aman, and was clothed in a Yukon placer-miner's dress. She did not knowthat I loved her; so you need not grieve if this murdered girl whomyou loved, and the one whom I call Mordaunt, were one and the same. Ifled from the Shallows where we worked together, partly in order thatshe might not know that. Now will you tell me, once and for all, wasthis girl, whom Spurling murdered, called Mordaunt? If you love God,tell me the truth and speak out. I can bear the truth, but I cannotendure this suspense."
With the careful precision of a mind uncertain of its own sanity, herepeated and re-balanced his phrases, distrusting his own exactness,fearful lest he had not chosen such words as would make his meaningplain. Ah, but by his gestures, if language failed him, he would causehim to understand. For such news, even though it should be bad news,he would pledge his honour to help Strangeways in his search forSpurling. He would even volunteer to go single-handed and capture himhimself--bring him down to Murder Point by guile, where Strangewayswould be waiting to take him. The best and worst which he himselfcould derive from such a promise would be only that he should meetwith death--but he should have thought of that offer earlier, and madeit while Strangeways was with him.
At that word _death_ the purpose of his present errand flared vividlyin his mind, and he hurried his pace.
Looking back across his shoulder through the darkness, for the moonwas under cloud, he could just make out where his store pinnacled themound at the Point; he had left the door open in the haste of hisdeparture and, over the threshold slantwise across the snow, the firefrom the stove threw an angry glare. It was only a mile from the Pointto the bend, yet he seemed to have been journeying for hours. Thesurface of the river was difficult to travel because the snow whichhad fallen was wet; it shrank away from the feet at every stride. Forthis season of the year in Keewatin the night was mild; there was adamp rawness, but scarcely any frost in the air. If the ice had beenrotten in the morning at the bend, it would be doubly treacherous now.Ah, but he had warned Strangeways! Surely he would be sufficientlycautious to half-believe him at least in that. When he came to wherethe river turned northwards, he would forsake the short-cut of the oldtrail and swing out into the middle stream, or work safely round alongthe bank. If he couldn't scent danger for himself, his huskies wouldchoose their own path and save him, unless--unless, feeling thesmoothness of the old trail beneath the snow, they should lazilychoose that, or unless that leader of Spurling's should wilfully leadthem astray; but surely the four hind-dogs would have sense not tofollow him, and would hang back.
He kept his eyes on the darkness before him, but to the northeast allwas shadowy; he could discern nothing. Yes, there was something movingover there. He judged that he had already traversed three-quarters ofthat interminable mile; surely he would be able to catch up with himnow. The recent blizzard had wiped out the old trail, but he couldstill feel it firm beneath the snow; he was following in Strangeways'tracks--Strangeways' which had been Spurling's. Then he came to apoint where the staler tracks, which were Spurling's, had branched outinto mid-stream to round the bend; but
he saw to his horror thatStrangeways' had kept on to the left by the winter trail, toward thespot of which he had warned him--he had even suspected that that finalwarning was a trap.
Ah, there he was straight ahead of him; he could see him distinctlynow. The moon, rising clear of cloud, made his figure plain. He calledto him, and it seemed that he half-turned his head. He was keepingperilously near in to the bend. He called to him again, and signed tohim with his arms to drive out. Then once more a cloud passed beforethe moon, making the land seem dead.
He advanced cautiously, moving slowly, testing the strength of the iceat each fresh step before trusting it with his weight. Underneath hecould hear the lapping of the current as it rushed rapidly round thebend, and could feel the trembling of the crust beneath his feet, as aman does the vibration of an Atlantic liner when the engines areworking at full pressure, and every plank and bolt begins to shake andspeak. When he had come to where Strangeways had been standing, hestood still and listened. He could hear no sound of travel, nocursing a man's voice, urging his dogs forward, or cracking of a whip.Then he felt the ice sagging from under him, and the cold touch ofwater creeping round his moccasins. From a rift in the cloud, asegment of the moon looked out. Before and behind him lay the frozenexpanse of river, with its piled-up banks on either hand, and itsheavy blanketing of snow, smooth and level, making its passage seemsafe. Far over to the right stretched the trail of Spurling, showingugly and black against the white, where his steps and the steps of hisdogs had punctured the surface. Just before him, three yards distant,the ice had broken open, leaving a gaping hole over whose jagged edgesthe water climbed, and whimpered, and fell back, like a fretful childin its cot, which has wakened too early and is trying to clamber out.
As Granger watched, heedless of his own safety, a hand pushed outabove the current, the hooked fingers of which searched gropingly forsomething to which they might make fast. Granger, throwing himselfflat in the snow, so as to distribute his weight, crawled towards it.The hand rose higher, and then the arm, followed at last by the headand eyes of Strangeways, but not the mouth. He had caught hold of apoint of ice and was trying to pull himself up by that; but something(was it the swiftness of the current?) was dragging his body away fromunder him so that the water was still above his nose and mouth.Granger wormed his way to within arm-stretch and clasped his hand; butthe moment he commenced to pull, the weight became terrific--more thanthe weight of one man--and he himself began to slide slowly forwardtill his head and shoulders were above the water. Something wastugging at Strangeways from below the river, so that his body jerkedand quivered like a fisherman's line when a well-hooked salmon isendeavouring to make a rush at the other end.
Granger was leaning far out now, the surface was curving from underhim and his chest had left the ice. Then he realised what hadhappened: the loaded sledge had sunk to the bottom of the river-bed,and was holding down the four rear-dogs by their traces; but theleader, by struggling, had fought his way to within a few inches ofthe outer air, and, clinging on to Strangeways' throat and breast, wasfiercely striving to climb up him with his teeth to where breathingmight be found, in somewhat the same manner as Archbishop Salviati didin Florence to Francesco Pazzi, when the Gonfalonier hurled them bothout of the Palazzo window, each with a rope about his neck.
(Strange what men will think of at a crisis! Granger was grimlyamused, and half-disgusted with himself. How absurd that of all thingsat such a time he should have remembered that!)
The weight of the four rear-dogs and the loaded sledge were graduallydragging the leader down, and, with him, Strangeways. He held ondesperately; now and then, as he made a fresh effort, his yellow snoutwould appear above the water or the top of his yellow head--except forthat, he might not have been there. But Granger was intent onStrangeways; staring into his eyes, which were distant the length ofhis arm out-stretched, he was appalled at the consternation theyreflected, and the evident terror of the end. If he could only get athis knife, he might be able to effect something; but his knife wasbeneath his capote, in his belt, and both his hands were occupied,the one with supporting the drowning man, the other with preventinghimself from slipping further.
He wanted to speak to Strangeways, but he could not think of any wordswhich were not so trivial as to sound blasphemous on such an occasion.The man was growing weaker and heavier to hold; his eyes were losingtheir vision, and the water rose in bubbles from his mouth. There wasonly one last chance, that if he could support him long enough for thehusky at his throat to release his grip and die first, he might beable to drag him out.
Though all this had been the work of only a few seconds, his arm wasbecoming numb and intolerably painful. Whatever it might cost him, hepromised himself that he would not let go till hope was at an end. Hewas slipping forward again; he would soon overbalance. But what didthat matter to one who did not fear death? After all, an honourableout-going is the best El Dorado which any man can hope to find asreward for his long life's search. If he were to die for and withStrangeways, he would at least prove to him that he was not entirelyworthless.
Then, before it was too late, he found his words. "Be brave," heshouted hoarsely, "be brave! It is only death."
It would have seemed a preposterous supposition yesterday that theprivate trader at Murder Point should ever be in a position to bid theveriest scum among cowards to be brave. As he spoke, the intelligencecame back to Strangeways' eyes, the fear went out from them and thefeatures, losing their agony, straightened into an expression whichwas almost grave. His hand became small in Granger's palm, as thoughit were offering to slip away.
Some deep instinct stirred in Granger; he suddenly loved this man forthe self-denial which that act betrayed. If there was to be a denialof self, however, he was emphatic that his should be the sacrifice.Was it this thought of sacrifice which brought religion to hismind--some haunting, quick remembrance of those wise words about"dying for one's friend"?
Quite irrationally and without connection with anything which hadpreviously occurred, leaning yet further out at his own immediateperil, shifting his grip to Strangeways' wrist that he might hold himmore firmly, he whispered, "Jesus of Galilee! Jesus Christ!"
The face of the drowning man took on an awful serenity, a look ofholiness, as if at sight of something which stood behind Granger,which he had only just discerned. He even smiled. Suddenly, with thedetermination of one who had concluded and conquered an oldtemptation, he wrenched away his hand. Granger made one last effort toreach him, but the tugging of the beast below the surface, or its deadweight, had drifted him out of arm-stretch. He sank lower. The waterrose, almost leisurely it seemed as if now certain of the one thing ithad desired, higher and higher up his face till it had reached hiseyes, quenched them, and nothing was left but a few bubbles whichfloated to the surface and broke, sparkling in the moonlight. Grangerdid not stir; as he had been paralysed, he lay there rigid with theblack waters washing about his face and hands. Then very slowly, asthough reluctant not to die, he drew himself back. When he had reachedsafety, rising up, he gazed around; the land looked more desolatethan ever. The first words which he said were spoken sacredly, withbated breath. "And that man told me," he muttered, "that he was afraidof death. . . . To prefer to die at such a time, rather than risk mylife, was the act of a man who was very brave." And next he said, "Iwonder what were his last words when he crashed through the ice? Iexpect he said, 'Damn.' Well, that was as good as any other word tosay; after all, all swearing, taken in a certain sense, is a form ofprayer--a bluff assertion of belief in the divine."
Granger turned slowly about, and commenced to make his way back to thePoint. At first he spoke aloud to himself as a thought occurred. "Idistrusted that yellow beast of Spurling's from the first." "Now atany rate Spurling is safe." "I haven't yet discovered whether Mordauntis dead,"--and so on. Then he ceased to speak with his lips, and histhoughts were uttered in the silence of his brain. They had all to dowith Strangeways.
He wondered what vision had b
een his, causing him to smile as he sank.Did he think of that girl, and that he was going to meet her? Or ofthe old home in England? Or of his school-days? Or was it the Thameshe thought about--of Oxford with its many towers, and the cry of thecoach along the tow-path as the eight swings homeward up-stream, inthe grey of a winter afternoon, to the regular click of the rowlocksas the men pluck their blades from the water, feather and come forwardfor the next stroke, making ready to drive back their slides as oneman with their legs? He was certain that whatever happened, andhowever he should go out of life, did God spare him a moment'sconsciousness, it would be the vision of Oxford with its domes andspires, its austere and romantic quiet, its echoing cloisters andpassages, its rivers with their sedges of silver and of grey, whichwould float before his dying eyes,--or would he think of Christ? HadChrist been the vision which this man had seen?
Strange thoughts for Keewatin! But death is always strange.
Murder Point: A Tale of Keewatin Page 8