The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure

by Rex Beach

  This is the story of a burden, the tale of a load that irked a strongman's shoulders. To those who do not know the North it may seem strange,but to those who understand the humors of men in solitude, and theextravagant vagaries that steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts withthe night, it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in thewilderness, eerie forces which play pranks; some droll or whimsical,others grim.

  Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, trail-mates, brothersin soul if not in blood. The ebb and flood of frontier life had broughtthem together, its hardships had united them until they were as one.They were something of a mystery to each other, neither havingsurrendered all his confidence, and because of this they retained theirmutual attraction. Had they known each other fully, had they thoroughlysounded each other's depths, they would have lost interest, just likehusbands and wives who give themselves too freely and reserve nothing.

  They had met by accident, but they remained together by desire, and sosatisfactory was the union that not even the jealousy of women had comebetween them. There had been women, of course, just as there had beenadventures of other sorts, but the love of the partners was larger andfiner than anything else they had experienced. It was so true and fineand unselfish, in fact, that either would have smilingly relinquishedthe woman of his desires had the other wished to possess her. They wereyoung, strong men, and the world was full of sweethearts, but where wasthere a partnership like theirs, they asked themselves.

  The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, too, and it ledthem into curious byways. It was this which sent them northward from theStates in the dead of winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; itwas this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of Illiamna,whither their land journey should have commenced.

  "There are two routes over the coast range," the captain of the _Dora_told them, "and only two. Illiamna Pass is low and easy, but thedistance is longer than by way of Katmai. I can land you at eitherplace."

  "Katmai is pretty tough, isn't it?" Grant inquired.

  "We've understood it's the worst pass in Alaska." Cantwell's eyes wereeager.

  "It's a heller! Nobody travels it except natives, and they don't likeit. Now, Illiamna--"

  "We'll try Katmai. Eh, Mort?"

  "Sure! They don't come hard enough for us, Cap. We'll see if it's as badas it's painted."

  So, one gray January morning they were landed on a frozen beach, theiroutfit was flung ashore through the surf, the life-boat pulled away, andthe _Dora_ disappeared after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their lastglimpse of her showed the captain waving good-by and the purser flappinga red table-cloth at them from the after-deck.

  "Cheerful place, this," Grant remarked, as he noted the desolatesurroundings of dune and hillside.

  The beach itself was black and raw where the surf washed it, butelsewhere all was white, save for the thickets of alder and willow whichprotruded nakedly. The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out ofthe Alaskan range; along the foot-hills behind there was a belt ofspruce and cottonwood and birch. It was a lonely and apparentlyunpeopled wilderness in which they had been set down.

  "Seems good to be back in the North again, doesn't it?" said Cantwell,cheerily. "I'm tired of the booze, and the street-cars, and the dames,and all that civilized stuff. I'd rather be broke in Alaska--withyou--than a banker's son, back home."

  Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai trader, appeared amongthe dunes, and with him were some native villagers. That night thepartners slept in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained downwith old ships' cables. Petellin, the fat little trader, explained thatroofs in Katmai had a way of sailing off to seaward when the wind blew.He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and nodded.

  It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were foolish to try it,when the Illiamna route was open. Still, now that they were here, hewould find dogs for them, and a guide. The village hunters were outafter meat, however, and until they returned the white men would need towait in patience.

  There followed several days of idleness, during which Cantwell and Grantamused themselves around the village, teasing the squaws, playing gameswith the boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of whom, inparticular, was not unattractive. She was perhaps three-quarters Aleut,the other quarter being plain coquette, and, having been educated at thetown of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the white man.

  Cantwell approached her, and she met his extravagant advances more thanhalf-way. They were getting along nicely together when Grant, in aspirit of fun, entered the game and won her fickle smiles for himself.He joked his partner unmercifully, and Johnny accepted defeatgracefully, never giving the matter a second thought.

  When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a guide was hired, and, aweek after landing, the friends were camped at timber-line awaiting afavorable moment for their dash across the range. Above them whitehillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in the saw-toothed barrierwhich formed the pass; below them a short valley led down to Katmai andthe sea. The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the guidehad stared up at the peaks for a time he shook his head, then re-enteredthe tent and lay down. The mountains were "smoking"; from their topsstreamed a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be driftingsnow-clouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but they were patient.

  They were up and going on the following morning, however, with theIndian in the lead. There was no trail; the hills were steep; in placesthey were forced to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means ofropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. It lay like loosesand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of the sled in a feathery mass; thedogs wallowed in it and were unable to pull, hence the greater part ofthe work devolved upon the men. Once above the foot-hills and into therange proper, the going became more level, but the snow remainedknee-deep.

  The Indian broke trail stolidly; the partners strained at the sled,which hung back like a leaden thing. By afternoon the dogs had becomedisheartened and refused to heed the whip. There was neither fuel norrunning water, and therefore the party did not pause for luncheon. Themen were sweating profusely from their exertions and had long sincebecome parched with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and scouredtheir throats.

  Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his unusual exertions, fornot only had he assumed a lion's share of the work, but the last fewmonths of easy living had softened his muscles, and in consequence hisvitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were drenched; he wasfearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst seemed to penetrate his wholebody; he was forced to rest frequently.

  Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, "Feel bad, Johnny?"

  Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men economical of language.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Thirsty!" The former could barely speak.

  "There won't be any water till we get across. You'll have to stand it."

  They resumed their duties; the Indian "swish-swished" ahead, as ifwading through a sea of swan's-down; the dogs followed listlessly; thepartners leaned against the stubborn load.

  A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing Grant and theguide to study the sky anxiously. Cantwell was too weary to heed theincreasing cold. The snow on the slopes above began to move; here andthere, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs; the clean-cutoutlines of the hills became obscured as by a fog; the languid wind bitcruelly.

  After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and exclaimed: "I'm--all in,Mort. Don't seem to have the--guts." He was pale, his eyes weretortured. He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his lips,then spat it out, still dry.

  "Here! Brace up!" In a panic of apprehension at this collapse Grantshook him; he had never known Johnny to fail like this. "Take a drink ofbooze; it'll do you good." He drew a bottle of brandy from one of thedunnage bags and Cantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it would quenchhis thirst, he thought. Before Mort
could check him he had drunk a thirdof the contents.

  The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell's stomach was emptyand his tissues seemed to absorb the liquor like a dry sponge; hisfatigue fell away, he became suddenly strong and vigorous again. Butbefore he had gone a hundred yards the reaction followed. First his mindgrew thick, then his limbs became unmanageable and his muscles flabby.He was drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxication, againstwhich he struggled desperately. He fought it for perhaps a quarter of amile before it mastered him; then he gave up.

  Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on the trail, but they hadnever stopped to reason why, and even now they did not attributeJohnny's breakdown to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and fell,then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he sprawled theremotionless until Mort dragged him to the sled. He stared at his partnerin perplexity and laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, darknesswas near, they had not yet reached the Bering slope.

  Something in the drunken man's face frightened Grant and, extracting aship's biscuit from the grub-box, he said, hurriedly: "Here, Johnny. Getsomething under your belt, quick."

  Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but there was no moistureon his tongue; his throat was paralyzed; the crumbs crowded themselvesfrom the corners of his lips. He tried with limber fingers to stuff themdown, or to assist the muscular action of swallowing, but finallyexpelled them in a cloud. Mort drew the parka hood over his partner'shead, for the wind cut like a scythe and the dogs were turning tail toit, digging holes in the snow for protection. The air about them waslike yeast; the light was fading.

  The Indian snow-shoed his way back, advising a quick camp until thestorm abated, but to this suggestion Grant refused to listen, knowingonly too well the peril of such a course. Nor did he dare take Johnny onthe sled, since the fellow was half asleep already, but instead whippedup the dogs and urged his companion to follow as best he could.

  When Cantwell fell, for a second time, he returned, dragged him forward,and tied his wrists firmly, yet loosely, to the load.

  The storm was pouring over them now, like water out of a spout; itseared and blinded them; its touch was like that of a flame.Nevertheless they struggled on into the smother, making what headwaythey could. The Indian led, pulling at the end of a rope; Grant strainedat the sled and hoarsely encouraged the dogs; Cantwell stumbled andlurched in the rear like an unwilling prisoner. When he fell hiscompanion lifted him, then beat him, cursed him, tried in every way torouse him from his lethargy.

  After an interminable time they found they were descending and this gavethem heart to plunge ahead more rapidly. The dogs began to trot as thesled overran them; they rushed blindly into gullies, fetching up at thebottom in a tangle, and Johnny followed in a nerveless, stupefiedcondition. He was dragged like a sack of flour, for his legs were limpand he lacked muscular control, but every dash, every fall, every quickdescent drove the sluggish blood through his veins and cleared his brainmomentarily. Such moments were fleeting, however; much of the time hismind was a blank, and it was only by a mechanical effort that he foughtoff unconsciousness.

  He had vague memories of many beatings at Mort's hands, of the slipperyclean-swept ice of a stream over which he limply skidded, of beingcarried into a tent where a candle flickered and a stove roared. Grantwas holding something hot to his lips, and then--

  It was morning. He was weak and sick; he felt as if he had awakened froma hideous dream. "I played out, didn't I?" he queried, wonderingly.

  "You sure did," Grant laughed. "It was a tight squeak, old boy. I neverthought I'd get you through."

  "Played out! I--can't understand it." Cantwell prided himself on hisstrength and stamina, therefore the truth was unbelievable. He and Morthad long been partners, they had given and taken much at each other'shands, but this was something altogether different. Grant had saved hislife, at risk of his own; the older man's endurance had been the greaterand he had used it to good advantage. It embarrassed Johnny tremendouslyto realize that he had proven unequal to his share of the work, for hehad never before experienced such an obligation. He apologizedrepeatedly during the few days he lay sick, and meanwhile Mort waitedupon him like a mother.

  Cantwell was relieved when at last they had abandoned camp, changedguides at the next village, and were on their way along the coast, forsomehow he felt very sensitive about his collapse. He was, in fact,extremely ashamed of himself.

  Once he had fully recovered he had no further trouble, but soon roundedinto fit condition and showed no effects of his ordeal. Day after day heand Mort traveled through the solitudes, their isolation broken only byoccasional glimpses of native villages, where they rested briefly andrenewed their supply of dog-feed.

  But although the younger man was now as well and strong as ever, he wasuncomfortably conscious that his trail-mate regarded him as the weakerof the two and shielded him in many ways. Grant performed most of theunpleasant tasks, and occasionally cautioned Johnny about overdoing.This protective attitude at first amused, then offended Cantwell; itgalled him until he was upon the point of voicing his resentment, butreflected that he had no right to object, for, judging by pastperformances, he had proved his inferiority. This uncomfortablerealization forever arose to prevent open rebellion, but he assertedhimself secretly by robbing Grant of his self-appointed tasks. He rosefirst in the mornings, he did the cooking, he lengthened his turns aheadof the dogs, he mended harness after the day's hike had ended. Of coursethe older man objected, and for a time they had a good-natured rivalryas to who should work and who should rest--only it was not quite sogood-natured on Cantwell's part as he made it appear.

  Mort broke out in friendly irritation one day: "Don't try to doeverything, Johnny. Remember I'm no cripple."

  "Humph! You proved that. I guess it's up to me to do your work."

  "Oh, forget that day on the pass, can't you?"

  Johnny grunted a second time, and from his tone it was evident that hewould never forget, unpleasant though the memory remained. Sensing hissullen resentment, the other tried to rally him, but made a bad job ofit. The humor of men in the open is not delicate; their wit and theirwords become coarsened in direct proportion as they revert to theprimitive; it is one effect of the solitudes.

  Grant spoke extravagantly, mockingly, of his own superiority in a waywhich ordinarily would have brought a smile to Cantwell's lips, but thelatter did not smile. He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack ofphysical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly qualities--somethingwhich had never failed to result in a friendly exchange of badinage; heeven teased him about his defeat with the Katmai girl.

  Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found himself wonderingif Mort could have been in earnest. He dismissed the thought with someimpatience. But men on the trail have too much time for their thoughts;there is nothing in the monotonous routine of the day's work to distractthem, so the partner who had played out dwelt more and more upon hisdebt and upon his friend's easy assumption of pre-eminence. The weightof obligation began to chafe him, lightly at first, but withever-increasing discomfort. He began to think that Grant honestlyconsidered himself the better man, merely because chance had played intohis hands.

  It was silly, even childish, to dwell on the subject, he reflected, andyet he could not banish it from his mind. It was always before him, inone form or another. He felt the strength in his lean muscles, andsneered at the thought that Mort should be deceived. If it came to aphysical test he felt sure he could break his slighter partner with hisbare hands, and as for endurance--well, he was hungry for a chance todemonstrate it.

  They talked little; men seldom converse in the wastes, for there issomething about the silence of the wilderness which discourages speech.And no land is so grimly silent, so hushed and soundless, as the frozenNorth. For days they marched through desolation, without glimpse ofhuman habitation, without sight of track or trail, without sound of ahuman voice to break the monotony. There was no game in the country,with
the exception of an occasional bird or rabbit, nothing but thewhite hills, the fringe of alder-tops along the watercourses, and thethickets of gnarled, unhealthy spruce in the smothered valleys.

  Their destination was a mysterious stream at the headwaters of theunmapped Kuskokwim, where rumor said there was gold, and whither theyfeared other men were hastening from the mining country far to thenorth.

  Now it is a penalty of the White Country that men shall think of women.The open life brings health and vigor, strength and animal vitality, andthese clamor for play. The cold of the still, clear days is no morebiting than the fierce memories and appetites which charge through thebrain at night. Passions intensify with imprisonment, recollections cometo life, longings grow vivid and wild. Thoughts change to realities, thepast creeps close, and dream figures are filled with blood and fire. Oneremembers pleasures and excesses, women's smiles, women's kisses, theinvitation of outstretched arms. Wasted opportunities mock at one.

  Cantwell began to brood upon the Katmai girl, for she was the last; hereyes were haunting and distance had worked its usual enchantment. Hereflected that Mort had shouldered him aside and won her favor, thenboasted of it. Johnny awoke one night with a dream of her, and layquivering.

  "Hell! She was only a squaw," he said, half aloud. "If I'd reallytried--"

  Grant lay beside him, snoring, the heat of their bodies intermingled.The waking man tried to compose himself, but his partner's stertorousbreathing irritated him beyond measure; for a long time he remainedmotionless, staring into the gray blur of the tent-top. He had playedout. He owed his life to the man who had cheated him of the Katmai girl,and that man knew it. He had become a weak, helpless thing, dependentupon another's strength, and that other now accepted his superiority asa matter of course. The obligation was insufferable, and--it was unjust.The North had played him a devilish trick, it had betrayed him, it hadbound him to his benefactor with chains of gratitude which were irksome.Had they been real chains they could have galled him no more than atthis moment.

  As time passed the men spoke less frequently to each other. Grant joshedhis mate roughly, once or twice, masking beneath an assumption ofjocularity his own vague irritation at the change that had come overthem. It was as if he had probed at an open wound with clumsy fingers.

  Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those petty camp tasks whichprovoke tired trailers, those humdrum duties which are so trying toexhausted nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear uponevery man. But, once he had taken them over, he began to resent Grant'seasy relinquishment; it rankled him to realize how willingly the otherallowed him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-building, thebed-making. Little monotonies of this kind form the hardest part ofwinter travel, they are the rocks upon which friendships founder andpartnerships are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes the work toa great extent, and no man can shirk unduly, but in camp, inside thecramped confines of a tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it isvery different. There one must busy himself while the other rests andkeeps his legs out of the way if possible. One man sits on the beddingat the rear of the shelter, and shivers, while the other squats over atantalizing fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling hislimbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be passed, food divided,and it is poor food, poorly prepared at best. Sometimes men criticizeand voice longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks of thiskind have been known to result in tragedies, bitter words and flamingcurses--then, perhaps, wild actions, memories of which the later yearscan never erase.

  It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation of itssilent forces.

  Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would have willinglyaccepted the added burden, but Mort was able, he was nimble and "handy,"he was the better cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man inevery way--or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last thought, andthe memory of his debt was like bitter medicine.

  His resentment--in reality nothing more than a phase of insanity begotof isolation and silence--could not help but communicate itself to hiscompanion, and there resulted a mutual antagonism, which grew into adislike, then festered into something more, something strange,reasonless, yet terribly vivid and amazingly potent for evil. Neitherman ever mentioned it--their tongues were clenched between their teethand they held themselves in check with harsh hands--but it wasconstantly in their minds, nevertheless. No man who has not suffered themanifold irritations of such an intimate association can appreciate thegnawing canker of animosity like this. It was dangerous because therewas no relief from it: the two were bound together as by gyves; theyshared each other's every action and every plan; they trod in eachother's tracks, slept in the same bed, ate from the same plate. Theywere like prisoners ironed to the same staple.

  Each fought the obsession in his own way, but it is hard to fight theimpalpable, hence their sick fancies grew in spite of themselves. Theirminds needed food to prey upon, but found none. Each began to criticizethe other silently, to sneer at his weaknesses, to meditate derisivelyupon his peculiarities. After a time they no longer resisted the advanceof these poisonous thoughts, but welcomed it.

  On more than one occasion the embers of their wrath were upon the pointof bursting into flame, but each realized that the first ill-consideredword would serve to slip the leash from those demons that were strainingto go free, and so managed to restrain himself.

  The crisis came one crisp morning when a dog-team whirled around a bendin the river and a white man hailed them. He was the mail-carrier, onhis way out from Nome, and he brought news of the "inside."

  "Where are you boys bound for?" he inquired when greetings were over andgossip of the trail had passed.

  "We're going to the Stony River strike," Grant told him.

  "Stony River? Up the Kuskokwim?"

  "Yes!"

  The mail-man laughed. "Can you beat that? Ain't you heard about StonyRiver?"

  "No!"

  "Why, it's a fake--no such place."

  There was a silence; the partners avoided each other's eyes.

  "MacDonald, the fellow that started it, is on his way to Dawson. There'sa gang after him, too, and if he's caught it'll go hard with him. Hewrote the letters--to himself--and spread the news just to raise agrub-stake. He cleaned up big before they got onto him. He peddled histips for real money."

  "Yes!" Grant spoke quietly. "Johnny bought one. That's what brought usfrom Seattle. We went out on the last boat and figured we'd come in fromthis side before the break-up. So--fake! By God!"

  "Gee! You fellers bit good." The mail-carrier shook his head. "Well!You'd better keep going now; you'll get to Nome before the season opens.Better take dog-fish from Bethel--it's four bits a pound on the Yukon.Sorry I didn't hit your camp last night; we'd 'a' had a visit. Tell thegang that you saw me." He shook hands ceremoniously, yelled at hispanting dogs, and went swiftly on his way, waving a mitten on high as hevanished around the next bend.

  The partners watched him go, then Grant turned to Johnny, and repeated:"Fake! By God! MacDonald stung you."

  Cantwell's face went as white as the snow behind him, his eyes blazed."Why did you tell him I bit?" he demanded, harshly.

  "Hunh! _Didn't_ you bite? Two thousand miles afoot; three months ofhell; for nothing. That's biting some."

  "_Well!_" The speaker's face was convulsed, and Grant's flamed with ananswering anger. They glared at each other for a moment. "Don't blameme. You fell for it, too."

  "I--" Mort checked his rushing words.

  "Yes, _you_! Now, what are you going to do about it? Welch?"

  "I'm going through to Nome." The sight of his partner's rage had setMort to shaking with a furious desire to fly at his throat, but,fortunately, he retained a spark of sanity.

  "Then shut up, and quit chewing the rag. You--talk too damned much."

  Mort's eyes were bloodshot; they fell upon the carbine under the sledlashings, and lingered there, then wavered. He opened his lips,reconsidered, sp
oke softly to the team, then lifted the heavy dog-whipand smote the malamutes with all his strength.

  The men resumed their journey without further words, but each wascursing inwardly.

  "So! I talk too much," Grant thought. The accusation struck in his mindand he determined to speak no more.

  "He blames me," Cantwell reflected, bitterly. "I'm in wrong again and hecouldn't keep his mouth shut. A hell of a partner, he is!"

  All day they plodded on, neither trusting himself to speak. They atetheir evening meal like mutes; they avoided each other's eyes. Even theguide noticed the change and looked on curiously.

  There were two robes and these the partners shared nightly, but theirhatred had grown so during the past few hours that the thought of lyingside by side, limb to limb, was distasteful. Yet neither dared suggest adivision of the bedding, for that would have brought further words andresulted in the crash which they longed for, but feared. They strippedoff their furs, and lay down beside each other with the same repugnancethey would have felt had there been a serpent in the couch.

  This unending malevolent silence became terrible. The strain of itincreased, for each man now had something definite to cherish in thewords and the looks that had passed. They divided the camp work withscrupulous nicety, each man waited upon himself and asked no favors. Theknowledge of his debt forever chafed Cantwell; Grant resented hiscompanion's lack of gratitude.

  Of course they spoke occasionally--it was beyond human endurance toremain entirely dumb--but they conversed in monosyllables, about trivialthings, and their voices were throaty, as if the effort choked them.Meanwhile they continued to glow inwardly at a white heat.

  Cantwell no longer felt the desire to merely match his strength againstGrant's; the estrangement had become too wide for that; a physicalvictory would have been flat and tasteless; he craved some deepersatisfaction. He began to think of the ax--just how or when or why henever knew. It was a thin-bladed, polished thing of frosty steel, andthe more he thought of it the stronger grew his impulse to rid himselfonce for all of that presence which exasperated him. It would be veryeasy, he reasoned; a sudden blow, with the weight of his shouldersbehind it--he fancied he could feel the bit sink into Grant's flesh,cleaving bone and cartilages in its course--a slanting downward stroke,aimed at the neck where it joined the body, and he would be foreversatisfied. It would be ridiculously simple. He practised in the gloom ofevening as he felled spruce-trees for fire-wood; he guarded the axreligiously; it became a living thing which urged him on to violence. Hesaw it standing by the tent-fly when he closed his eyes to sleep; hedreamed of it; he sought it out with his eyes when he first awoke. Heslid it loosely under the sled lashings every morning, thinking that itsuse could not long be delayed.

  As for Grant, the carbine dwelt forever in his mind, and his fingersitched for it. He secretly slipped a cartridge into the chamber, andwhen an occasional ptarmigan offered itself for a target he saw thewhite spot on the breast of Johnny's reindeer parka, dancing ahead ofthe Lyman bead.

  The solitude had done its work; the North had played its grim comedy tothe final curtain, making sport of men's affections and turning love torankling hate. But into the mind of each man crept a certain craftiness.Each longed to strike, but feared to face the consequences. It waslonesome, here among the white hills and the deathly silences, yet theyreflected that it would be still more lonesome if they were left to keepstep with nothing more substantial than a memory. They determined,therefore, to wait until civilization was nearer, meanwhile rehearsingthe moment they knew was inevitable. Over and over in their thoughtseach of them enacted the scene, ending it always with the picture of aprostrate man in a patch of trampled snow which grew crimson as theother gloated.

  They paused at Bethel Mission long enough to load with dried salmon,then made the ninety-mile portage over lake and tundra to the Yukon.There they got their first touch of the "inside" world. They camped in abarabara where white men had slept a few nights before, and heard theirown language spoken by native tongues. The time was growing short now,and they purposely dismissed their guide, knowing that the trail wasplain from there on. When they hitched up, on the next morning, Cantwellplaced the ax, bit down, between the tarpaulin and the sled rail,leaving the helve projecting where his hand could reach it. Grant thrustthe barrel of the rifle beneath a lashing, with the butt close by thehandle-bars, and it was loaded.

  A mile from the village they were overtaken by an Indian and his squaw,traveling light behind hungry dogs. The natives attached themselves tothe white men and hung stubbornly to their heels, taking advantage oftheir tracks. When night came they camped alongside, in the hope offood. They announced that they were bound for St. Michaels, and in spiteof every effort to shake them off they remained close behind thepartners until that point was reached.

  At St. Michaels there were white men, practically the first Johnny andMort had encountered since landing at Katmai, and for a day at leastthey were sane. But there were still three hundred miles to be traveled,three hundred miles of solitude and haunting thoughts. Just as they wereabout to start, Cantwell came upon Grant and the A. C. agent, and heardhis name pronounced, also the word "Katmai." He noted that Mort fellsilent at his approach, and instantly his anger blazed afresh. Hedecided that the latter had been telling the story of their experienceon the pass and boasting of his service. So much the better, he thought,in a blind rage; that which he planned doing would appear all the morelike an accident, for who would dream that a man could kill the personto whom he owed his life?

  That night he waited for a chance.

  They were camped in a dismal hut on a wind-swept shore; they were alone.But Grant was waiting also, it seemed. They lay down beside each other,ostensibly to sleep; their limbs touched; the warmth from their bodiesintermingled, but they did not close their eyes.

  They were up and away early, with Nome drawing rapidly nearer. They hadskirted an ocean, foot by foot; Bering Sea lay behind them, now, and itsnorthern shore swung westward to their goal. For two months they hadlived in silent animosity, feeding on bitter food while their elbowsrubbed.

  Noon found them floundering through one of those unheralded storms whichmake coast travel so hazardous. The morning had turned off gray, the skywas of a leaden hue which blended perfectly with the snow underfoot,there was no horizon, it was impossible to see more than a few yards inany direction. The trail soon became obliterated and their eyes began toplay tricks. For all they could distinguish, they might have beensuspended in space; they seemed to be treading the measures of anendless dance in the center of a whirling cloud. Of course it was cold,for the wind off the open sea was damp, but they were not men to turnback.

  They soon discovered that their difficulty lay not in facing the storm,but in holding to the trail. That narrow, two-foot causeway, packed by awinter's travel and frozen into a ribbon of ice by a winter's frosts,afforded their only avenue of progress, for the moment they left it thesled plowed into the loose snow, well-nigh disappearing and bringing thedogs to a standstill. It was the duty of the driver, in such case, towallow forward, right the load if necessary, and lift it back intoplace. These mishaps were forever occurring, for it was impossible todistinguish the trail beneath its soft covering. However, if thedriver's task was hard it was no more trying than that of the man ahead,who was compelled to feel out and explore the ridge of hardened snow andice with his feet, after the fashion of a man walking a plank in thedark. Frequently he lunged into the drifts with one foot, or both; hisglazed mukluk soles slid about, causing him to bestride the invisiblehog-back, or again his legs crossed awkwardly, throwing him off hisbalance. At times he wandered away from the path entirely and had tosearch it out again. These exertions were very wearing and they weredangerous, also, for joints are easily dislocated, muscles twisted, andtendons strained.

  Hour after hour the march continued, unrelieved by any change, unbrokenby any speck or spot of color. The nerves of their eyes, wearied byconstant near-sighted peering at the snow, began
to jump so that visionbecame untrustworthy. Both travelers appreciated the necessity ofclinging to the trail, for, once they lost it, they knew they mightwander about indefinitely until they chanced to regain it or found theirway to the shore, while always to seaward was the menace of open water,of air-holes, or cracks which might gape beneath their feet like jaws.Immersion in this temperature, no matter how brief, meant death.

  The monotony of progress through this unreal, leaden world became almostunbearable. The repeated strainings and twistings they suffered inwalking the slippery ridge reduced the men to weariness; their legs grewclumsy and their feet uncertain. Had they found a camping-place theywould have stopped, but they dared not forsake the thin thread thatlinked them with safety to go and look for one, not knowing where theshore lay. In storms of this kind men have lain in their sleeping-bagsfor days within a stone's-throw of a roadhouse or village. Bodies havebeen found within a hundred yards of shelter after blizzards haveabated.

  Cantwell and Grant had no choice, therefore, except to bore into thewelter of drifting flakes.

  It was late in the afternoon when the latter met with an accident.Johnny, who had taken a spell at the rear, heard him cry out, saw himstagger, struggle to hold his footing, then sink into the snow. The dogspaused instantly, lay down, and began to strip the ice pellets frombetween their toes.

  Cantwell spoke harshly, leaning upon the handle-bars: "Well! What's theidea?"

  It was the longest sentence of the day.

  "I've--hurt myself." Mort's voice was thin and strange; he raisedhimself to a sitting posture, and reached beneath his parka, then layback weakly. He writhed, his face was twisted with pain. He continued tolie there, doubled into a knot of suffering. A groan was wrenched frombetween his teeth.

  "Hurt? How?" Johnny inquired, dully.

  It seemed very ridiculous to see that strong man kicking around in thesnow.

  "I've ripped something loose--here." Mort's palms were pressed in uponhis groin, his fingers were clutching something. "Ruptured--I guess." Hetried again to rise, but sank back. His cap had fallen off and hisforehead glistened with sweat.

  Cantwell went forward and lifted him. It was the first time in many daysthat their hands had touched, and the sensation affected him strangely.He struggled to repress a devilish mirth at the thought that Grant hadplayed out--it amounted to that and nothing less; the trail haddelivered him into his enemy's hands, his hour had struck. Johnnydetermined to square the debt now, once for all, and wipe his own mindclean of that poison which corroded it. His muscles were strong, hisbrain clear, he had never felt his strength so irresistible as at thismoment, while Mort, for all his boasted superiority, was nothing but anerveless thing hanging limp against his breast. Providence had arrangedit all. The younger man was impelled to give raucous voice to his glee,and yet--his helpless burden exerted an odd effect upon him.

  He deposited his foe upon the sled and stared at the face he had not metfor many days. He saw how white it was, how wet and cold, how weak anddazed, then as he looked he cursed inwardly, for the triumph of hismoment was spoiled.

  The ax was there, its polished bit showed like a piece of ice, its helveprotruded handily, but there was no need of it now; his fingers were allthe weapons Johnny needed; they were more than sufficient, in fact, forMort was like a child.

  Cantwell was a strong man, and, although the North had coarsened him,yet underneath the surface was a chivalrous regard for all things weak,and this the trail-madness had not affected. He had longed for thisinstant, but now that it had come he felt no enjoyment, since he couldnot harm a sick man and waged no war on cripples. Perhaps, when Mort hadrested, they could settle their quarrel; this was as good a place asany. The storm hid them, they would leave no traces, there could be nointerruption.

  But Mort did not rest. He could not walk; movement brought excruciatingpain.

  Finally Cantwell heard himself saying: "Better wrap up and lie still fora while. I'll get the dogs underway." His words amazed him dully. Theywere not at all what he had intended to say.

  The injured man demurred, but the other insisted gruffly, then broughthim his mittens and cap, slapping the snow out of them before rousingthe team to motion. The load was very heavy now, the dogs had nofootprints to guide them, and it required all of Cantwell's efforts toprevent capsizing. Night approached swiftly, the whirling snow particlescontinued to flow past upon the wind, shrouding the earth in animpenetrable pall.

  The journey soon became a terrible ordeal, a slow, halting progress thatled nowhere and was accomplished at the cost of tremendous exertion.Time after time Johnny broke trail, then returned and urged the huskiesforward to the end of his tracks. When he lost the path he sought itout, laboriously hoisted the sledge back into place, and coaxed hisfour-footed helpers to renewed effort. He was drenched withperspiration, his inner garments were steaming, his outer ones werefrozen into a coat of armor; when he paused he chilled rapidly. Hisvision was untrustworthy, also, and he felt snow-blindness coming on.Grant begged him more than once to unroll the bedding and prepare tosleep out the storm; he even urged Johnny to leave him and make a dashfor his own safety, but at this the younger man cursed and told him tohold his tongue.

  Night found the lone driver slipping, plunging, lurching ahead of thedogs, or shoving at the handle-bars and shouting at the dogs. Finally,during a pause for rest he heard a sound which roused him. Out of thegloom to the right came the faint, complaining howl of a malamute; itwas answered by his own dogs, and the next moment they had caught ascent which swerved them shoreward and led them scrambling through thedrifts. Two hundred yards, and a steep bank loomed above, up and overwhich they rushed, with Cantwell yelling encouragement; then a lightshowed, and they were in the lee of a low-roofed hut.

  A sick native, huddled over a Yukon stove, made them welcome to his meanabode, explaining that his wife and son had gone to Unalaklik forsupplies.

  Johnny carried his partner to the one unoccupied bunk and stripped hisclothes from him. With his own hands he rubbed the warmth back intoMortimer's limbs, then swiftly prepared hot food, and, holding him inthe hollow of his aching arm, fed him, a little at a time. He was liketo drop from exhaustion, but he made no complaint. With one folded robehe made the hard boards comfortable, then spread the other as acovering. For himself he sat beside the fire and fought his weariness.When he dozed off and the cold awakened him, he renewed the fire; heheated beef-tea, and, rousing Mort, fed it to him with a teaspoon. Allnight long, at intervals, he tended the sick man, and Grant's eyesfollowed him with an expression that brought a fierce pain to Cantwell'sthroat.

  "You're mighty good--after the rotten way I acted," the former whisperedonce.

  And Johnny's big hand trembled so that he spilled the broth.

  His voice was low and tender as he inquired, "Are you resting easiernow?"

  The other nodded.

  "Maybe you're not hurt badly, after--all. God! That would be awful--"Cantwell choked, turned away, and, raising his arms against the logwall, buried his face in them.

  * * * * *

  The morning broke clear; Grant was sleeping. As Johnny stiffly mountedthe creek bank with a bucket of water he heard a jingle of sleigh-bellsand saw a sled with two white men swing in toward the cabin.

  "Hello!" he called, then heard his own name pronounced.

  "Johnny Cantwell, by all that's holy!"

  The next moment he was shaking hands vigorously with two old friendsfrom Nome.

  "Martin and me are bound for Saint Mikes," one of them explained. "Wherethe deuce did you come from, Johnny?"

  "The 'outside.' Started for Stony River, but--"

  "Stony River!" The new-comers began to laugh loudly and Cantwell joinedthem. It was the first time he had laughed for weeks. He realized thefact with a start, then recollected also his sleeping partner, and said:

  "'Sh-h! Mort's inside, asleep!"

  During the night everything had changed for Johnny Cantwell; his mentalat
titude, his hatred, his whole reasonless insanity. Everything wasdifferent now, even his debt was canceled, the weight of obligation wasremoved, and his diseased fancies were completely cured.

  "Yes! Stony River," he repeated, grinning broadly. "I bit!"

  Martin burst forth, gleefully: "They caught MacDonald at Holy Cross andran him out on a limb. He'll never start another stampede. Old man Bakergun-branded him."

  "What's the matter with Mort?" inquired the second traveler.

  "He's resting up. Yesterday, during the storm he--" Johnny was upon thepoint of saying "played out," but changed it to "had an accident. Wethought it was serious, but a few days' rest 'll bring him around allright. He saved me at Katmai, coming in. I petered out and threw up mytail, but he got me through. Come inside and tell him the news."

  "Sure thing."

  "Well, well!" Martin said. "So you and Mort are still partners, eh?"

  "_Still_ partners?" Johnny took up the pail of water. "Well, rather!We'll always be partners." His voice was young and full and hearty as hecontinued: "Why, Mort's the best damned fellow in the world. I'd laydown my life for him."

  THE STAMPEDE