by Jack London
VIII. THE HANGING OF CULTUS GEORGE
The way led steeply up through deep, powdery snow that was unmarredby sled-track or moccasin impression. Smoke, in the lead, pressed thefragile crystals down under his fat, short snow-shoes. The task requiredlungs and muscle, and he flung himself into it with all his strength.Behind, on the surface he packed, strained the string of six dogs, thesteam-jets of their breathing attesting their labor and the lowness ofthe temperature. Between the wheel-dog and the sled toiled Shorty, hisweight divided between the guiding gee-pole and the haul, for he waspulling with the dogs. Every half-hour he and Smoke exchanged places,for the snow-shoe work was even more arduous than that of the gee-pole.
The whole outfit was fresh and strong. It was merely hard work beingefficiently done--the breaking of a midwinter trail across a divide. Onthis severe stretch, ten miles a day they called a decent stint.They kept in condition, but each night crawled well tired into theirsleeping-furs. This was their sixth day out from the lively camp ofMucluc on the Yukon. In two days, with the loaded sled, they had coveredthe fifty miles of packed trail up Moose Creek. Then had come thestruggle with the four feet of untouched snow that was really not snow,but frost-crystals, so lacking in cohesion that when kicked it flew withthe thin hissing of granulated sugar. In three days they had wallowedthirty miles up Minnow Creek and across the series of low divides thatseparate the several creeks flowing south into Siwash River; and nowthey were breasting the big divide, past the Bald Buttes, where theway would lead them down Porcupine Creek to the middle reaches of MilkRiver. Higher up Milk River, it was fairly rumored, were deposits ofcopper. And this was their goal--a hill of pure copper, half a mile tothe right and up the first creek after Milk River issued from a deepgorge to flow across a heavily timbered stretch of bottom. They wouldknow it when they saw it. One-Eyed McCarthy had described it with sharpdefiniteness. It was impossible to miss it--unless McCarthy had lied.
Smoke was in the lead, and the small scattered spruce-trees werebecoming scarcer and smaller, when he saw one, dead and bone-dry, thatstood in their path. There was no need for speech. His glance to Shortywas acknowledged by a stentorian "Whoa!" The dogs stood in the tracestill they saw Shorty begin to undo the sled-lashings and Smoke attackthe dead spruce with an ax; whereupon the animals dropped in the snowand curled into balls, the bush of each tail curved to cover four paddedfeet and an ice-rimmed muzzle.
The men worked with the quickness of long practice. Gold-pan,coffee-pot, and cooking-pail were soon thawing the heaped frost-crystalsinto water. Smoke extracted a stick of beans from the sled. Alreadycooked, with a generous admixture of cubes of fat pork and bacon, thebeans had been frozen into this portable immediacy. He chopped offchunks with an ax, as if it were so much firewood, and put them intothe frying-pan to thaw. Solidly frozen sourdough biscuits were likewiseplaced to thaw. In twenty minutes from the time they halted, the mealwas ready to eat.
"About forty below," Shorty mumbled through a mouthful of beans. "Say--Ihope it don't get colder--or warmer, neither. It's just right for trailbreaking."
Smoke did not answer. His own mouth full of beans, his jaws working,he had chanced to glance at the lead-dog, lying half a dozen feetaway. That gray and frosty wolf was gazing at him with the infinitewistfulness and yearning that glimmers and hazes so often in the eyes ofNorthland dogs. Smoke knew it well, but never got over the unfathomablewonder of it. As if to shake off the hypnotism, he set down his plateand coffee-cup, went to the sled, and began opening the dried-fish sack.
"Hey!" Shorty expostulated. "What 'r' you doin'?"
"Breaking all law, custom, precedent, and trail usage," Smoke replied."I'm going to feed the dogs in the middle of the day--just this once.They've worked hard, and that last pull to the top of the divide isbefore them. Besides, Bright there has been talking to me, telling meall untellable things with those eyes of his."
Shorty laughed skeptically. "Go on an' spoil 'em. Pretty soon you'llbe manicurin' their nails. I'd recommend cold cream and electricmassage--it's great for sled-dogs. And sometimes a Turkish bath does 'emfine."
"I've never done it before," Smoke defended. "And I won't again. Butthis once I'm going to. It's just a whim, I guess."
"Oh, if it's a hunch, go to it." Shorty's tones showed how immediatelyhe had been mollified. "A man's always got to follow his hunches."
"It isn't a hunch, Shorty. Bright just sort of got on my imagination fora couple of twists. He told me more in one minute with those eyes of histhan I could read in the books in a thousand years. His eyes were acrawlwith the secrets of life. They were just squirming and wriggling there.The trouble is I almost got them, and then I didn't. I'm no wiser thanI was before, but I was near them." He paused and then added, "I can'ttell you, but that dog's eyes were just spilling over with cues towhat life is, and evolution, and star-dust, and cosmic sap, and all therest--everything."
"Boiled down into simple American, you got a hunch," Shorty insisted.
Smoke finished tossing the dried salmon, one to each dog, and shook hishead.
"I tell you yes," Shorty argued. "Smoke, it's a sure hunch. Something'sgoin' to happen before the day is out. You'll see. And them driedfish'll have a bearin'."
"You've got to show me," said Smoke.
"No, I ain't. The day'll take care of itself an' show you. Now listen towhat I'm tellin' you. I got a hunch myself out of your hunch. I'll beteleven ounces against three ornery toothpicks I'm right. When I get ahunch I ain't a-scared to ride it."
"You bet the toothpicks, and I'll bet the ounces," Smoke returned.
"Nope. That'd be plain robbery. I win. I know a hunch when it ticklesme. Before the day's out somethin' 'll happen, an' them fish'll have ameanin'."
"Hell," said Smoke, dismissing the discussion contemptuously.
"An' it'll be hell," Shorty came back. "An' I'll take three moretoothpicks with you on them same odds that it'll be sure-enough hell."
"Done," said Smoke.
"I win," Shorty exulted. "Chicken-feather toothpicks for mine."
An hour later they cleared the divide, dipped down past the Bald Buttesthrough a sharp elbow-canyon, and took the steep open slope that droppedinto Porcupine Creek. Shorty, in the lead, stopped abruptly, and Smokewhoaed the dogs. Beneath them, coming up, was a procession of humans,scattered and draggled, a quarter of a mile long.
"They move like it was a funeral," Shorty noted.
"They've no dogs," said Smoke.
"Yep; there's a couple of men pullin' on a sled."
"See that fellow fall down? There's something the matter, Shorty, andthere must be two hundred of them."
"Look at 'em stagger as if they was soused. There goes another."
"It's a whole tribe. There are children there."
"Smoke, I win," Shorty proclaimed. "A hunch is a hunch, an' you can'tbeat it. There she comes. Look at her!--surgin' up like a lot ofcorpses."
The mass of Indians, at sight of the two men, had raised a weird cry ofjoy and accelerated its pace.
"They're sure tolerable woozy," commented Shorty. "See 'em fallin' downin lumps and bunches."
"Look at the face of that first one," Smoke said. "It'sstarvation--that's what's the matter with them. They've eaten theirdogs."
"What'll we do? Run for it?"
"And leave the sled and dogs?" Smoke demanded reproachfully.
"They'll sure eat us if we don't. They look hungry enough for it. Hello,old skeeziks. What's wrong with you? Don't look at that dog that way. Nocookin'-pot for him--savvy?"
The forerunners were arriving and crowding about them, moaning andplainting in an unfamiliar jargon. To Smoke the picture was grotesqueand horrible. It was famine unmistakable. Their faces, hollow-cheekedand skin-stretched, were so many death's-heads. More and more arrivedand crowded about, until Smoke and Shorty were hemmed in by the wildcrew. Their ragged garments of skin and fur were cut and slashed away,and Smoke knew the reason for it when he saw a wizened child on asquaw's back that sucked and chewed
a strip of filthy fur. Another childhe observed steadily masticating a leather thong.
"Keep off there!--keep back!" Shorty yelled, falling back on Englishafter futile attempts with the little Indian he did know.
Bucks and squaws and children tottered and swayed on shaking legs andcontinued to surge in, their mad eyes swimming with weakness and burningwith ravenous desire. A woman, moaning, staggered past Shorty and fellwith spread and grasping arms on the sled. An old man followed her,panting and gasping, with trembling hands striving to cast off the sledlashings, and get at the grub-sacks beneath. A young man, with a nakedknife, tried to rush in, but was flung back by Smoke. The whole masspressed in upon them, and the fight was on.
At first Smoke and Shorty shoved and thrust and threw back. Then theyused the butt of the dog-whip and their fists on the food-mad crowd. Andall this against a background of moaning and wailing women and children.Here and there, in a dozen places, the sled-lashings were cut. Mencrawled in on their bellies, regardless of a rain of kicks and blows,and tried to drag out the grub. These had to be picked up bodily andflung back. And such was their weakness that they fell continually,under the slightest pressures or shoves. Yet they made no attempt toinjure the two men who defended the sled.
It was the utter weakness of the Indians that saved Smoke and Shortyfrom being overborne. In five minutes the wall of up-standing,on-struggling Indians had been changed to heaps of fallen ones thatmoaned and gibbered in the snow, and cried and sniveled as theirstaring, swimming eyes focused on the grub that meant life to themand that brought the slaver to their lips. And behind it all arose thewailing of the women and children.
"Shut up! Oh, shut up!" Shorty yelled, thrusting his fingers into hisears and breathing heavily from his exertions. "Ah, you would, wouldyou!" was his cry as he lunged forward and kicked a knife from the handof a man who, bellying through the snow, was trying to stab the lead-dogin the throat.
"This is terrible," Smoke muttered.
"I'm all het up," Shorty replied, returning from the rescue of Bright."I'm real sweaty. An' now what 'r' we goin' to do with this ambulanceoutfit?"
Smoke shook his head, and then the problem was solved for him. An Indiancrawled forward, his one eye fixed on Smoke instead of on the sled, andin it Smoke could see the struggle of sanity to assert itself. Shortyremembered having punched the other eye, which was already swollen shut.The Indian raised himself on his elbow and spoke.
"Me Carluk. Me good Siwash. Me savvy Boston man plenty. Me plentyhungry. All people plenty hungry. All people no savvy Boston man. Mesavvy. Me eat grub now. All people eat grub now. We buy 'm grub. Got 'mplenty gold. No got 'm grub. Summer, salmon no come Milk River. Winter,caribou no come. No grub. Me make 'm talk all people. Me tell 'em plentyBoston man come Yukon. Boston man have plenty grub. Boston man like 'mgold. We take 'm gold, go Yukon, Boston man give 'm grub. Plenty gold.Me savvy Boston man like 'm gold."
He began fumbling with wasted fingers at the draw-string of a pouch hetook from his belt.
"Too much make 'm noise," Shorty broke in distractedly. "You tell 'msquaw, you tell 'm papoose, shut 'm up mouth."
Carluk turned and addressed the wailing women. Other bucks, listening,raised their voices authoritatively, and slowly the squaws stilled,and quieted the children near to them. Carluk paused from fumbling thedraw-string and held up his fingers many times.
"Him people make 'm die," he said.
And Smoke, following the count, knew that seventy-five of the tribe hadstarved to death.
"Me buy 'm grub," Carluk said, as he got the pouch open and drew out alarge chunk of heavy metal. Others were following his example, and onevery side appeared similar chunks. Shorty stared.
"Great Jeminey!" he cried. "Copper! Raw, red copper! An' they think it'sgold!"
"Him gold," Carluk assured them confidently, his quick comprehensionhaving caught the gist of Shorty's exclamation.
"And the poor devils banked everything on it," Smoke muttered. "Look atit. That chunk there weighs forty pounds. They've got hundreds of poundsof it, and they've carried it when they didn't have strength enough todrag themselves. Look here, Shorty. We've got to feed them."
"Huh! Sounds easy. But how about statistics? You an' me has a month'sgrub, which is six meals times thirty, which is one hundred an' eightymeals. Here's two hundred Indians, with real, full-grown appetites. Howthe blazes can we give 'm one meal even?"
"There's the dog-grub," Smoke answered. "A couple of hundred pounds ofdried salmon ought to help out. We've got to do it. They've pinned theirfaith on the white man, you know."
"Sure, an' we can't throw 'm down," Shorty agreed. "An' we got two nastyjobs cut out for us, each just about twicet as nasty as the other. Oneof us has got to make a run of it to Mucluc an' raise a relief. Theother has to stay here an' run the hospital an' most likely be eaten.Don't let it slip your noodle that we've been six days gettin' here; an'travelin' light, an' all played out, it can't be made back in less 'nthree days."
For a minute Smoke pondered the miles of the way they had come,visioning the miles in terms of time measured by his capacity forexertion. "I can get there to-morrow night," he announced.
"All right," Shorty acquiesced cheerfully. "An' I'll stay an' be eaten."
"But I'm going to take one fish each for the dogs," Smoke explained,"and one meal for myself."
"An' you'll sure need it if you make Mucluc to-morrow night."
Smoke, through the medium of Carluk, stated the program. "Make fires,long fires, plenty fires," he concluded. "Plenty Boston man stop Mucluc.Boston man much good. Boston man plenty grub. Five sleeps I come backplenty grub. This man, his name Shorty, very good friend of mine. Hestop here. He big boss--savvy?"
Carluk nodded and interpreted.
"All grub stop here. Shorty, he give 'm grub. He boss--savvy?"
Carluk interpreted, and nods and guttural cries of agreement proceededfrom the men.
Smoke remained and managed until the full swing of the arrangement wasunder way. Those who were able, crawled or staggered in the collectingof firewood. Long, Indian fires were built that accommodated all.Shorty, aided by a dozen assistants, with a short club handy for therapping of hungry knuckles, plunged into the cooking. The women devotedthemselves to thawing snow in every utensil that could be mustered.First, a tiny piece of bacon was distributed all around, and, next, aspoonful of sugar to cloy the edge of their razor appetites. Soon, on acircle of fires drawn about Shorty, many pots of beans were boiling,and he, with a wrathful eye for what he called renigers, was frying andapportioning the thinnest of flapjacks.
"Me for the big cookin'," was his farewell to Smoke. "You just keepa-hikin'. Trot all the way there an' run all the way back. It'll takeyou to-day an' to-morrow to get there, and you can't be back inside ofthree days more. To-morrow they'll eat the last of the dog-fish, an'then there'll be nary a scrap for three days. You gotta keep a-comin',Smoke. You gotta keep a-comin'."
Though the sled was light, loaded only with six dried salmon, a coupleof pounds of frozen beans and bacon, and a sleeping-robe, Smoke couldnot make speed. Instead of riding the sled and running the dogs, he wascompelled to plod at the gee-pole. Also, a day of work had already beendone, and the freshness and spring had gone out of the dogs and himself.The long arctic twilight was on when he cleared the divide and left theBald Buttes behind.
Down the slope better time was accomplished, and often he was able tospring on the sled for short intervals and get an exhausting six-mileclip out of the animals. Darkness caught him and fooled him in awide-valleyed, nameless creek. Here the creek wandered in broadhorseshoe curves through the flats, and here, to save time, he beganshort-cutting the flats instead of keeping to the creek-bed. And blackdark found him back on the creek-bed feeling for the trail. After anhour of futile searching, too wise to go farther astray, he built afire, fed each dog half a fish, and divided his own ration in half.Rolled in his robe, ere quick sleep came he had solved the problem. Thelast big flat he had short-cut was
the one that occurred at the forksof the creek. He had missed the trail by a mile. He was now on the mainstream and below where his and Shorty's trail crossed the valley andclimbed through a small feeder to the low divide on the other side.
At the first hint of daylight he got under way, breakfastless, andwallowed a mile upstream to pick up the trail. And breakfastless, manand dogs, without a halt, for eight hours held back transversely acrossthe series of small creeks and low divides and down Minnow Creek. Byfour in the afternoon, with darkness fast-set about him, he emerged onthe hard-packed, running trail of Moose Creek. Fifty miles of it wouldend the journey. He called a rest, built a fire, threw each dog itshalf-salmon, and thawed and ate his pound of beans. Then he sprang onthe sled, yelled, "Mush!" and the dogs went out strongly against theirbreast-bands.
"Hit her up, you huskies!" he cried. "Mush on! Hit her up for grub! Andno grub short of Mucluc! Dig in, you wolves! Dig in!"
Midnight had gone a quarter of an hour in the Annie Mine. The main roomwas comfortably crowded, while roaring stoves, combined with lack ofventilation, kept the big room unsanitarily warm. The click of chips andthe boisterous play at the craps-table furnished a monotonous backgroundof sound to the equally monotonous rumble of men's voices where theysat and stood about and talked in groups and twos and threes. Thegold-weighers were busy at their scales, for dust was the circulatingmedium, and even a dollar drink of whiskey at the bar had to be paid forto the weighers.
The walls of the room were of tiered logs, the bark still on, and thechinking between the logs, plainly visible, was arctic moss. Through theopen door that led to the dance-room came the rollicking strains of aVirginia reel, played by a piano and a fiddle. The drawing of Chineselottery had just taken place, and the luckiest player, having cashed atthe scales, was drinking up his winnings with half a dozen cronies.The faro- and roulette-tables were busy and quiet. The draw-poker andstud-poker tables, each with its circle of onlookers, were equallyquiet. At another table, a serious, concentrated game of Black Jack wason. Only from the craps-table came noise, as the man who played rolledthe dice, full sweep, down the green amphitheater of a table in pursuitof his elusive and long-delayed point. Ever he cried: "Oh! you JoeCotton! Come a four! Come a Joe! Little Joe! Bring home the bacon, Joe!Joe, you Joe, you!"
Cultus George, a big strapping Circle City Indian, leaned distantly anddourly against the log wall. He was a civilized Indian, if living like awhite man connotes civilization; and he was sorely offended, though theoffense was of long standing. For years he had done a white man's work,had done it alongside of white men, and often had done it better thanthey did. He wore the same pants they wore, the same hearty woolens andheavy shirts. He sported as good a watch as they, parted his short hairon the side, and ate the same food--bacon, beans, and flour; and yet hewas denied their greatest diversion and reward; namely, whiskey. CultusGeorge was a money-earner. He had staked claims, and bought and soldclaims. He had been grub-staked, and he had accorded grub-stakes. Justnow he was a dog-musher and freighter, charging twenty-eight centsa pound for the winter haul from Sixty Mile to Mucluc--and for baconthirty-three cents, as was the custom. His poke was fat with dust. Hehad the price of many drinks. Yet no barkeeper would serve him. Whiskey,the hottest, swiftest, completest gratifier of civilization, was not forhim. Only by subterranean and cowardly and expensive ways could he get adrink. And he resented this invidious distinction, as he had resentedit for years, deeply. And he was especially thirsty and resentful thisnight, while the white men he had so sedulously emulated he hated morebitterly than ever before. The white men would graciously permit him tolose his gold across their gaming-tables, but for neither love nor moneycould he obtain a drink across their bars. Wherefore he was very sober,and very logical, and logically sullen.
The Virginia reel in the dance-room wound to a wild close thatinterfered not with the three camp drunkards who snored under the piano."All couples promenade to the bar!" was the caller's last cry as themusic stopped. And the couples were so promenading through the widedoorway into the main room--the men in furs and moccasins, the womenin soft fluffy dresses, silk stockings, and dancing-slippers--when thedouble storm-doors were thrust open, and Smoke Bellew staggered wearilyin.
Eyes centered on him, and silence began to fall. He tried to speak,pulled off his mittens (which fell dangling from their cords), andclawed at the frozen moisture of his breath which had formed in fiftymiles of running. He halted irresolutely, then went over and leaned hiselbow on the end of the bar.
Only the man at the craps-table, without turning his head, continuedto roll the dice and to cry: "Oh! you Joe! Come on, you Joe!" Thegamekeeper's gaze, fixed on Smoke, caught the player's attention, andhe, too, with suspended dice, turned and looked.
"What's up, Smoke?" Matson, the owner of the Annie Mine, demanded.
With a last effort, Smoke clawed his mouth free. "I got some dogs outthere--dead beat," he said huskily. "Somebody go and take care of them,and I'll tell you what's the matter."
In a dozen brief sentences, he outlined the situation. The craps-player,his money still lying on the table and his slippery Joe Cotton stilluncaptured, had come over to Smoke, and was now the first to speak.
"We gotta do something. That's straight. But what? You've had time tothink. What's your plan? Spit it out."
"Sure," Smoke assented. "Here's what I've been thinking. We've got tohustle light sleds on the jump. Say a hundred pounds of grub on eachsled. The driver's outfit and dog-grub will fetch it up fifty more.But they can make time. Say we start five of these sleds pronto--bestrunning teams, best mushers and trail-eaters. On the soft trail thesleds can take the lead turn about. They've got to start at once. At thebest, by the time they can get there, all those Indians won't have had ascrap to eat for three days. And then, as soon as we've got those sledsoff we'll have to follow up with heavy sleds. Figure it out yourself.Two pounds a day is the very least we can decently keep those Indianstraveling on. That's four hundred pounds a day, and, with the old peopleand the children, five days is the quickest time we can bring them intoMucluc. Now what are you going to do?"
"Take up a collection to buy all the grub," said the craps-player.
"I'll stand for the grub," Smoke began impatiently.
"Nope," the other interrupted. "This ain't your treat. We're all in.Fetch a wash-basin somebody. It won't take a minute. An' here's astarter."
He pulled a heavy gold-sack from his pocket, untied the mouth, andpoured a stream of coarse dust and nuggets into the basin. A man besidehim caught his hand up with a jerk and an oath, elevating the mouthof the sack so as to stop the run of the dust. To a casual eye, six oreight ounces had already run into the basin.
"Don't be a hawg," cried the second man. "You ain't the only one with apoke. Gimme a chance at it."
"Huh!" sneered the craps-player. "You'd think it was a stampede, you'reso goshdanged eager about it."
Men crowded and jostled for the opportunity to contribute, and whenthey were satisfied, Smoke hefted the heavy basin with both hands andgrinned.
"It will keep the whole tribe in grub for the rest of the winter," hesaid. "Now for the dogs. Five light teams that have some run in them."
A dozen teams were volunteered, and the camp, as a committee of thewhole, bickered and debated, accepted and rejected.
"Huh! Your dray-horses!" Long Bill Haskell was told.
"They can pull," he bristled with hurt pride.
"They sure can," he was assured. "But they can't make time for sourapples. They've got theirs cut out for them bringing up the heavyloads."
As fast as a team was selected, its owner, with half a dozen aids,departed to harness up and get ready.
One team was rejected because it had come in tired that afternoon. Oneowner contributed his team, but apologetically exposed a bandaged anklethat prevented him from driving it. This team Smoke took, overriding theobjection of the crowd that he was played out.
Long Bill Haskell pointed out that while Fat Olsen's
team was acrackerjack, Fat Olsen himself was an elephant. Fat Olsen's two hundredand forty pounds of heartiness was indignant. Tears of anger came intohis eyes, and his Scandinavian explosions could not be stopped until hewas given a place in the heavy division, the craps-player jumping at thechance to take out Olsen's light team.
Five teams were accepted and were being harnessed and loaded, but onlyfour drivers had satisfied the committee of the whole.
"There's Cultus George," some one cried. "He's a trail-eater, and he'sfresh and rested."
All eyes turned upon the Indian, but his face was expressionless, and hesaid nothing.
"You'll take a team," Smoke said to him.
Still the big Indian made no answer. As with an electric thrill, it ranthrough all of them that something untoward was impending. A restlessshifting of the group took place, forming a circle in which Smokeand Cultus George faced each other. And Smoke realized that by commonconsent he had been made the representative of his fellows in what wastaking place, in what was to take place. Also, he was angered. Itwas beyond him that any human creature, a witness to the scramble ofvolunteers, should hang back. For another thing, in what followed,Smoke did not have Cultus George's point of view--did not dream that theIndian held back for any reason save the selfish, mercenary one.
"Of course you will take a team," Smoke said.
"How much?" Cultus George asked.
A snarl, spontaneous and general, grated in the throats and twisted themouths of the miners. At the same moment, with clenched fists or fingerscrooked to grip, they pressed in on the offender.
"Wait a bit, boys," Smoke cried. "Maybe he doesn't understand. Let meexplain it to him. Look here, George. Don't you see, nobody is charginganything. They're giving everything to save two hundred Indians fromstarving to death." He paused, to let it sink home.
"How much?" said Cultus George.
"Wait, you fellows! Now listen, George. We don't want you to make anymistake. These starving people are your kind of people. They're anothertribe, but they're Indians just the same. Now you've seen what the whitemen are doing--coughing up their dust, giving their dogs and sleds,falling over one another to hit the trail. Only the best men can go withthe first sleds. Look at Fat Olsen there. He was ready to fight becausethey wouldn't let him go. You ought to be mighty proud because all menthink you are a number-one musher. It isn't a case of how much, but howquick."
"How much?" said Cultus George.
"Kill him!" "Bust his head!" "Tar and feathers!" were several of thecries in the wild medley that went up, the spirit of philanthropy andgood fellowship changed to brute savagery on the instant.
In the storm-center Cultus George stood imperturbable, while Smokethrust back the fiercest and shouted:
"Wait! Who's running this?" The clamor died away. "Fetch a rope," headded quietly.
Cultus George shrugged his shoulders, his face twisting tensely in asullen and incredulous grin. He knew this white-man breed. He had toiledon trail with it and eaten its flour and bacon and beans too long not toknow it. It was a law-abiding breed. He knew that thoroughly. It alwayspunished the man who broke the law. But he had broken no law. He knewits law. He had lived up to it. He had neither murdered, stolen, norlied. There was nothing in the white man's law against charging a priceand driving a bargain. They all charged a price and drove bargains. Hewas doing nothing more than that, and it was the thing they had taughthim. Besides, if he wasn't good enough to drink with them, then he wasnot good enough to be charitable with them, nor to join them in anyother of their foolish diversions.
Neither Smoke nor any man there glimpsed what lay in Cultus George'sbrain, behind his attitude and prompting his attitude. Though theydid not know it, they were as beclouded as he in the matter of mutualunderstanding. To them, he was a selfish brute; to him, they wereselfish brutes.
When the rope was brought, Long Bill Haskell, Fat Olsen, and thecraps-player, with much awkwardness and angry haste, got the slip-noosearound the Indian's neck and rove the rope over a rafter. At the otherend of the dangling thing a dozen men tailed on, ready to hoist away.
Nor had Cultus George resisted. He knew it for what it was--bluff. Thewhites were strong on bluff. Was not draw-poker their favorite game? Didthey not buy and sell and make all bargains with bluff? Yes; he had seena white man do business with a look on his face of four aces and in hishand a busted straight.
"Wait," Smoke commanded. "Tie his hands. We don't want him climbing."
More bluff, Cultus George decided, and passively permitted his hands tobe tied behind his back.
"Now it's your last chance, George," said Smoke. "Will you take out theteam?"
"How much?" said Cultus George.
Astounded at himself that he should be able to do such a thing, and atthe same time angered by the colossal selfishness of the Indian, Smokegave the signal. Nor was Cultus George any less astounded when he feltthe noose tighten with a jerk and swing him off the floor. His stoliditybroke on the instant. On his face, in quick succession, appearedsurprise, dismay, and pain.
Smoke watched anxiously. Having never been hanged himself, he felt atyro at the business. The body struggled convulsively, the tied handsstrove to burst the bonds, and from the throat came unpleasant noises ofstrangulation. Suddenly Smoke held up his hand.
"Slack away" he ordered.
Grumbling at the shortness of the punishment, the men on the ropelowered Cultus George to the floor. His eyes were bulging, and he wastottery on his feet, swaying from side to side and still making afight with his hands. Smoke divined what was the matter, thrust violentfingers between the rope and the neck, and brought the noose slack witha jerk. With a great heave of the chest, Cultus George got his firstbreath.
"Will you take that team out?" Smoke demanded.
Cultus George did not answer. He was too busy breathing.
"Oh, we white men are hogs," Smoke filled in the interval, resentfulhimself at the part he was compelled to play. "We'd sell our souls forgold, and all that; but once in a while we forget about it and turnloose and do something without a thought of how much there is in it. Andwhen we do that, Cultus George, watch out. What we want to know now is:Are you going to take out that team?"
Cultus George debated with himself. He was no coward. Perhaps this wasthe extent of their bluff, and if he gave in now he was a fool. Andwhile he debated, Smoke suffered from secret worry lest this stubbornaborigine would persist in being hanged.
"How much?" said Cultus George.
Smoke started to raise his hand for the signal.
"Me go," Cultus George said very quickly, before the rope could tighten.
"An' when that rescue expedition found me," Shorty told it in the AnnieMine, "that ornery Cultus George was the first in, beatin' Smoke's sledby three hours, an' don't you forget it, Smoke comes in second at that.Just the same, it was about time, when I heard Cultus George a-yellin'at his dogs from the top of the divide, for those blamed Siwashes hadate my moccasins, my mitts, the leather lacin's, my knife-sheath, an'some of 'em was beginnin' to look mighty hungry at me--me bein' betternourished, you see.
"An' Smoke? He was near dead. He hustled around a while, helpin' tostart a meal for them two hundred sufferin' Siwashes; an' then he fellasleep, settin' on his haunches, thinkin' he was feedin' snow into athawin'-pail. I fixed him my bed, an' dang me if I didn't have to helphim into it, he was that give out. Sure I win the toothpicks. Didn'tthem dogs just naturally need the six salmon Smoke fed 'em at thenoonin'?"