by Max Brand
Massey was a hero. He never referred to his blindness in any way, never cursed his luck, never complained about the future; but I knew with absolute surety that as soon as he was away from us he would take his own life. He could endure the constant torment of those injured eyes — every flicker of an eyelid, no doubt, was an agony — and without a groan he could get through day after day; but now and again I was able to spot a stiffening of his lips and a hardening of his jaw muscles, and at those times I knew very well what was coming. He would stick out the journey with us, simply because he felt that it was his sporting duty to do so; but life held nothing ahead for him.
When we had bathed his eyes and made a poultice of tea leaves to put over them, Marjorie began to talk. She talked about me, at first. She said a good deal about what I had done that morning in spoiling Calmont’s outfit. She talked about my courage, and such stuff; and Massey amazed me and made me feel like a king by announcing that it was a nervy job, and that I’d make a man, one day.
Once Marjorie’s tongue was loosened, she went on. She said that she had intended keeping the secret to herself forever, but that we had come to mean so much to her that she had to put herself in a little better light than that of a thief and a sneak.
She sat up by the stove with her hands gripped hard together and her eyes flicking back and forth from me to Massey as she talked. It wasn’t easy for her, but I knew that we were hearing truth. What she had to say was a pretty common story, all except her part of it. She had a sister by name of Joan who married the town’s bright boy, a fellow called Lindley.
Lindley worked in the bank, got quick advancement, and was so valuable that it was said that he personally was responsible for getting half of the accounts which the bank carried. He built himself a good house and had the best of everything, and they appeared to be the happiest young couple in the state. They had two children. Everything was going along fine, to all appearances, when one evening Joan came to Marjorie, hysterical, and told her that there was a crash for fair.
Lindley had cleared out.
Well, of course, he had been spending too much, ran behind, gambled in stocks to make up losses, lost still more, swiped money from the bank for a final plunge, and woke up owing the bank over eight thousand dollars. Then he cleared out, leaving a letter in which he said that he would never come home until he could pay what he owed and clear his name.
They had no trace of him for a long time, and then a letter came to Marjorie from Alaska, from Lindley. It begged for news about Joan and the babies, and asked her not to mention the fact that he had gone to Nome.
She did what he asked. She said nothing, but she got her things together and went to Nome to try to persuade that brother-in-law of hers to go back to the States. He could change his name, if necessary, and start life over again, and save up money until he could pay off his debts, but to leave his wife and youngsters was bad business for them all.
Up to Nome she went, sure of her powers to persuade, but when she found Lindley, he was adamant and would not be budged. He was going to tear gold out of the frozen tundra if he had to do it with his teeth, he said.
It was after that interview that I found her crying at Tucker’s house. She had made up her mind to do something desperate. If Lindley stayed there in Alaska, she was sure that he never would get what he needed; and in the meantime Joan’s heart was breaking. It was a wild scheme that came to the girl’s mind. But she had the stuff in her that martyrs are made of.
She saw Lindley again and told him that she had worked out a gambling system, that it paid big, and that she was going to make a killing with it. If he would meet her that night at a certain place, she would hand him the coin that he needed.
Poor Lindley! I suppose he was too desperate to ask questions or doubt. A miracle was promised to him, and he simply held out his hand and took the pot of gold that fell into it, while Marjorie walked on to throw her life away and, instead, stepped into my hands and into as odd a series of incidents as I’ve ever heard of.
Now, she told this yarn with a quick, quiet voice, and wound up with an apology for Lindley, saying that he was really a good sort, and all that kind of thing; but, while I listened to her, I thought that I was hearing from about as big a spirit as a boy or man could find in this world. There was a solemn sort of accompaniment for this talk, for outside, on the river, we could hear murmurings and boomings, and distant thunders, so that we knew the time had almost come when the Yukon would break up.
It might make hard work for us over the rough going inland if we had to give up the ice road, but it would be a picture to see and remember. For Marjorie and me to see, I should say. There would be no picture on the darkened eyes of Massey, again.
When the story came to an end, Massey dropped his face in his hands. That amazed me, but a moment later light was shown to my blind eyes. For Marjorie waved me toward the tent flap.
Her face was white; her eyes were big; her lips were trembling. And I got out of that tent as fast as a hunted wolf out of a lamb fold.
On the outside, walking up and down with Alec, I turned the thing over in my mind. She was going to get out of Massey the confession that he cared for her and, once he spoke, I could guess that she was going to say that she loved him with her whole soul. I knew it suddenly and fully, as well as if I had heard her speaking the words.
Why this thing should be, I could not tell. He had been nothing but rude, brutally rude. The girl had been nothing to him, at least in the beginning, other than a bait to catch Calmont.
But I could guess that she had been able to look under the surface and see a finer picture of him than I had known. Even I had grown very fond of him; but Marjorie was wise enough and big enough to see into the heart of him.
It was like her to fall in love with a lost cause, of course. I could see that it was exactly the sort of thing to expect of her, and pity for her, and sorrow for Massey, choked me. I tried to look into their future, but all I could see was the darkness that lay in Massey’s wounded eyes.
Perhaps the eyes would recover? Well, that would be almost too good to be true.
While I walked up and down, I heard nothing except once when Massey cried out in a terrible, great voice: “No, no, no!”
It sent shudders through me, for I could guess that he was trying to keep her from throwing herself away on a ruined life. Poor Massey!
When I was called back in by the girl, I found that Massey had slipped into his sleeping bag. And when I stared at Marjorie to read what I could, I saw that she was somewhere between tears and happiness. She must have persuaded a confession out of him; but I could imagine that she had not been able to break down his manhood enough to induce him to accept her self-sacrifice. He was not the sort to ruin the life of the woman he loved by becoming a burden to her.
This sight of the two of them, Massey with his face turned to the wall, was about as sad a thing as I’ve ever known.
XVI. ALEC GONE!
I HAD A good sleep but not a very long one. Presently new, deeper, and nearer thunders roared out from the river, and I hurried out to the edge of the bluff. Marjorie was already there, and together we watched the thing.
The thawing had weakened the ice long enough so that the swelling force of the river was ripping it to pieces. Great slices, squares, and humps of ice went down the stream and, since we were on the point of a fairly sharp curve, sometimes a spin of the water shot a raft of ice against the bank with enough force to make the soil tremble beneath our feet.
Just in the middle of the bend, where the current was swiftest, stood a little island, and down on this came the ice sections in such number, size, and force that it looked as though the island would be crushed away to nothing.
The glistening floes, when they hit the rocks under water, leaped up as though they had life of their own, and with such a splintering, crashing, shattering and roaring that it sounded like the fall of cities.
It was not the ice alone that was impressive, however. T
he Yukon is a whopping big river, and now its muddy yellow water was boiling and frothing. It ran like children turned loose. Or, rather like herds of buffalo stampeding.
The winter is the great force, the long-enduring force, in that land, but here was the spring having its moment and shouting with delight over it. Such a singing and dancing was a tremendous thing to watch. It made one grin, and stare until the eyes popped out. Marjorie and I looked at one another from time to time, and smiled, and felt that life somehow was a pretty good thing.
I had just stretched out my arm to point at the approach of an extra big cake, when I was grabbed from behind, jerked about, and shown the business end of a Colt revolver. It looked as big as a cannon, and on the other end of that gun was Calmont!
I would not have been surprised if he had taken me by the legs and flung me into the river, but I was nothing in his mind. He passed me to one of the other men; a third was already taking charge of Marjorie, and holding a handkerchief over her mouth to keep her from making any sound.
Calmont, when his hands were free, stepped over to her.
“Now,” says he, “you’ll have a chance to see the wind-up of this dance you’ve started!”
And he marched off toward the tent.
I understood. He was going to fight it out with Massey. That was his plan. He could not know that there was a blind man inside that tent.
About ten yards from the entrance he stopped and shouted: “Massey!”
I made a sudden struggle, and the fellow who had hold of me clipped me alongside the head with the barrel of his gun and promised to brain me if I tried to make a sound or give any warning. I looked across and saw Marjorie helplessly struggling, too. And the men who held us were grinning with expectancy. They apparently had perfect faith in Calmont’s ability to win any fight.
Through my horror at what was to happen there was another emotion shot like a grand red color, and that was the magnificence of Calmont as he stood yonder in front of the tent with his revolver in his hand, waiting for his enemy to come out, confident that he would not be shot from ambush, but met face to face like a man. The concentrated essence of a perfect hate was the light in the face of Calmont, of course, but there was also something more.
Or perhaps even hatred may be sublime after it once passes a certain point.
What would that blind man do when he heard the voice of his enemy? Well, I knew that something terrible was about to happen, but I was not prepared for the actuality. In another instant, out rushed Massey with a revolver in his hand — and without the bandage across his eyes!
I thought, for a staggering instant, that he really had recovered his sight, but then I realized the truth. He wanted death, and the cheapest way to get it was at the hands of Calmont.
The man who was holding me had gripped me across the mouth to keep me still; but as Massey appeared, lunging out into the open and turning toward the voice of Calmont, I bit the hand that stifled me. The hand jumped away, and I yelled at the top of my lungs: “He’s blind! Calmont, he’s blind!”
I fairly shrieked it, but I thought that I was too late, for I saw the gun flashing up in Calmont’s hand. Massey had raised his own weapon. There was a heavy explosion, but it was from Massey’s revolver. He had fired, you see, toward the sound of Calmont’s voice.
Perhaps that bullet flew very wide. Perhaps Calmont had heard my voice and believed me. At any rate, he held his fire, and then by slow degrees the weapon in his hand dropped back to his side. One thing was clear: that Calmont either wanted fair play, or that he loathed Massey so completely that the crushing of a blind man meant nothing to him.
Alec, springing out of the tent, behind his master, saw Calmont and winced to the side with a frightful snarl of hate and suspicion; but Massey, turning slowly about, fumbled his way back inside. I had a good glimpse of his face, and it certainly was blank with despair.
Calmont came over to the girl, and she and I were turned loose.
“You’ve got what you want,” he said. “You’ve got your man — a fine kind of a man that’ll make money out of a woman. But you got him, and may he do you a lot of good! You’ll likely get sick of your blind beggar. But if you stick with him, you can pray that he never gets sight back into his eyes, for if he does, I’m gunna come and throttle him, with you standin’ by to watch it! You—”
He could not find the words he wanted. He turned around in a strangling fury and saw me. I thought that he would make a lunge at me, but his second glance measured me better and showed that I was not meat for him. He looked wildly about, and then uttered a deep-throated cry as he saw Alec.
There was his one reward. His long journey went for nothing. A blind man he could not attack, and as for the blind man’s woman — for of course that’s what he took Marjorie to be — he disdained her, or tried to. But he caught up Alec and dragged the poor dog after him into the brush. He had to muzzle that husky in order to lead him along safely, for Alec was frantic. His yells and clamorings came back to us out of the brush after they were out of sight, and I felt as sick and miserable as though I were hearing a child crying out for help.
But I could do nothing against the three of them. They had come and gone all in a moment. They had not touched a thing of ours. I’m sure that the two brutes who marched with Calmont would have been glad to help themselves to our outfit, but they did not dare to act without orders. He had them perfectly in hand, and the whole trio disappeared, and the crying of poor Alec died off in the distance.
They had, in fact, found enough material to patch up four dog harnesses, and a long, forced march told the rest of the story.
We listened to them going, Marjorie and I, as we stood there on the bank of the Yukon, staring at the great shoals of ice which had piled up on the island. But we were not thinking of the river. We were thinking of the blinded man in the tent. He was broken, even as the river was breaking.
Then a great wall of ice sailed around the curve, one of those barriers that form in the fall. This mass crashed against the ice jam with a roar like a thousand great guns. The whole obstruction was swept away, and the very bank under us quivered like a jelly.
As the uproar died out a little, and I watched the fragments shooting past, Marjorie said to me: “You go in to him first, Joe. Then I’ll come a little later.”
I knew what she meant. She was prepared to face a life of torment, of quiet martyrdom; but she loved the man well enough to undertake it. Only she wanted one quiet moment to prepare and nerve herself.
So I, with head down, went miserably and slowly toward the tent. Like the girl, I knew what was inside it, and I dreaded and loathed worse than death to look into the face of that broken man.
XVII. WHAT THE DOCTOR THINKS
THREADING A NEEDLE with gloves on is a hard job. But I would rather try to thread a needle than handle a rifle with the sort of mittens that one wears in the arctic. In the first place, it is hard to crowd the forefinger inside of the trigger guard, and I worked and worked at my own pair until I managed to construct a finger cover that was smaller without being thin enough to allow a finger to grow cold. Furthermore, I got Jerry Payson, who used to be a blacksmith, to make a much larger guard. It looked like nothing much, that guard, when it was finished, but it was roomy and comfortable, and exactly what I wanted for the occasion. I had Jerry make two pairs, because I wanted one for my own rifle and an extra one for Massey’s, in case he should regain his eyesight.
After Jerry finished the guards and put them on the rifles, I took mine outside of Circle City to do some practicing. I had just finished a hard freighting trip to Forty Mile, and now I had some time out while we waited to get a new job. Even with the bigger guard, I found the rifle wonderfully clumsy. It seemed to slip and give, and it would not fit snugly against the shoulder, because of the thickness of the coat that I had on. Well, no matter for inconveniences, a fellow will put up with them when he feels that his life is going to depend upon the makeshift, one day.
I had
drilled away six times at a willow at fifty yards before I hit the trunk fairly, and the shock of the bullet whizzing through dislodged a chunk of snow frozen into an upper fork of the little tree. When that lump fell, what do you think? A snowshoe rabbit jumped up and skidded for safer country. That rabbit had been lying low there all the time I put the whiz of five bullets over his head! But as Massey used to say, a rabbit is such a fool that it is almost a genius.
I swung the gun around and tried for that rabbit, but he did a spry hop just as I pulled the trigger. I tried again, and though he swerved as I fired, the bullet was going faster than his tricky legs, and he rolled over heels — a good fresh meal for Massey and me, I hoped.
I was about to start for that jack, when a voice said behind me: “Wasting ammunition this far north, Joe May?”
I turned around short and saw Doctor Hector Forman right behind me. He must have sneaked up while I was shooting but, for that matter, he was so small and light that it was no wonder he could get across the snow without making much noise.
I looked at him with an odd feeling, as I always had since he began to take care of Massey. Partly, I respected and liked him for the time he was spending on Massey — probably for nothing. Partly, I was afraid and suspicious of him. For he looked like a red fox, all sharp nose and bright eyes. He never could keep from smiling as he talked, as though he knew all about what went on inside one’s mind and found it ridiculous. He was the most unpleasant fellow I ever knew, in lots of ways, but he was a bang-up doctor. Charitable, too, and the good he had done in Circle City you hardly would believe.
For that matter, most doctors are apt to be a little hard boiled. They have to see men and women in their worst moments, and they’re likely to grow cynical.
“I was just having a little fun,” I said.
He nodded at me. He was always nodding, no matter what any one said, as though he understood what you said and what you had in the back of your mind.