The Trail of 98 (39 page)

"I guess I can't afford to follow him any more," he reflected. "I've gone too
far already. I'm all petered out. I'll have to let him go in the meantime.
It's save yourself, Jack
Locasto, while there's yet time. Me for Dawson."

He struck off almost at right angles to the trail he had been following, over
a low range of hills. It was evil going, and as he broke through the snow-crust
mile after wearing mile, he felt himself grow weaker and weaker. "Buck up, old
man," he adjured himself fiercely. "You've got to fight, fight."

There was a strange stillness in the air, not the natural stillness of the
Wild, but an unhealthy one, as of a suspension of something, of a vacuum, of
bated breath. It was curiously full of terror. More and more he felt like a
trapped animal, caught in a vast cage. The sky to the north was glooming
ominously. Every second the horizon grew blacker, more bodeful, and Locasto
stared at it, with a sudden quake at his heart.

"Blizzard, by thunder!" he gasped.

Was that a breath of wind that stung his cheek? Was it a snowflake that
drifted along with it? Denser and denser grew the gloom, and now there was a
roaring as of a great wind. King Blizzard was come.

"I guess I'm done for," he hissed through clenched teeth. "But I'll fight to
the finish. I'll die game."

It was on him now with a swoop and a roar. He was in the thick of a mud-grey
darkness, a bitter, blank darkness full of whirling wind-eddies and vast
flurries of snow. He could not see more than a few feet before him. The stinging
flakes blinded him; the coal-black night engulfed him. In that seething turmoil
of the elements he was as helpless as a child.

"I guess you're on your last trail, Jack Locasto," he muttered grimly.

Nevertheless he lowered his head and butted desperately into the heart of the
storm. He was very faint from lack of food, but despair had given him a new
strength, and he plunged through drift and flurry with the fury of a goaded
bull.

The night had fallen black as the pit. He was in an immensity of darkness, a
darkness that packed close up to him, and hugged him, and enfolded him like a
blanket. And in the black void winds were raging with an insane fury, whirling
aloft mountains of snow and hurling them along plain and valley. The forests
shrieked in fear; the creatures of the Wild cowered in their lairs, but the
solitary man stumbled on and on. As if by magic barriers of snow piled up before
him, and almost to his shoulders he floundered through them. The wind had a
hatchet edge that pierced his clothes and hacked him viciously.
He knew his only plan was to keep
moving, to stumble, stagger on. It was a fight for life.

He had forgotten his hunger. Those wild visions of gluttony had gone from
him. He had forgotten his thirst for revenge, forgotten everything but his own
dire peril.

"Keep moving, keep moving for God's sake," he urged himself hoarsely. "You'll
freeze if you let up a moment. Don't let up, don't!"

But oh, how hard it was not to rest! Every muscle in his body seemed to beg
and pray for rest, yet the spirit in him drove them to work anew. He was making
a certain mad headway, travelling, always travelling. He doubted not he was
doomed, but instinct made him fight on as long as an atom of strength
remained.

He floundered to his armpits in a snowdrift. He struggled out and staggered
on once more. In the mad buffoonery of that cutting wind he scarce could stand
upright. His parka was frozen stiff as a board. He could feel his hands grow
numb in his mits. From his fingers the icy cold crept up and up. Long since he
had lost all sensation in his feet. From the ankles down they were like wooden
clogs. He had an idea they were frozen. He lifted them, and watched them sink
and disappear in the clinging snow. He beat his numb hands against his breast.
It was of no usehe could not get back the feeling in them. A craving to lie
down in the snow assailed him.

Life was so sweet. He had visions of cities, of banquets, of theatres, of
glittering triumphs, of glorious
excitements, of women he had loved, conquered and thrown
aside. Never again would he see that world. He would die here, and they would
find him rigid and brittle, frozen so hard they would have to thaw him out
before they buried him. He fancied he saw himself frozen in a grotesque
position. There would be ice-crystals in the very centre of his heart, that
heart that had glowed so fiercely with the lust of life. Yes, life was sweet. A
vast self-pity surged over him. Well, he had done his best; he could struggle no
more.

But struggle he did, another hour, two hours, three hours. Where was he
going? Maybe round in a circle. He was like an automaton now. He did not think
any more, he just kept moving. His feet clumped up and down. He lifted himself
out of snowpits; he staggered a few steps, fell, crawled on all fours in the
darkness, then in a lull of the furious wind rose once more to his feet. The
night was abysmal; closer and closer it hugged him. The wind was charging him
from all points, baffling him like a merry monster, beating him down. The snow
whirled around him in a narrow eddy, and he tried to grope out of it and failed.
Oh, he was tired, tired!

He must give up. It was too bad. He was so strong, and capable of so much for
good or bad. Alas! it had been all for bad. Oh, if he had but another chance he
might make his life tell a different tale! Well, he wasn't going to whine or
cower. He would die game.

His feet were frozen; his arms were frozen. Here
he would lie down andquit. It would soon be over,
and it was a pleasant death, they said. One more look he gave through the
writhing horror of the darkness; one more look before he closed his eyes to the
horror of the Greater Darkness....

Ha! what was that? He fancied he saw a dim glow just ahead. It could not be.
It was one of those cheating dreams that came to a dying man, an illusion, a
mockery. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them againthe glow was still
there.

Surely it must be real! It was steady. As he fell forward it seemed to grow
more bright. On hands and knees he crawled to it. Brighter and brighter it grew.
It was but a few feet away. Oh, God! could it be?

Then there was a lull in the storm, and with a final plunge Locasto fell
forward, fell towards a lamp lighted in a window, fell against the closed door
of a little cabin.

The Worm suffered acutely from the intense cold. He cursed it in his prolific
and exhaustive way. He cursed the leaden weight of his snowshoes, and the thongs
that chafed his feet. He cursed the pack he carried on his back, which momently
grew heavier. He cursed the country; then, after a general debauch of obscenity,
he decided it was time to feed.

He gathered some dry twigs and built a fire on the snow. He hurried, for the
freezing process was going on in his carcase, and he was afraid. It was all
ready. Now to light itthe matches.

Where in hell were
the matches? Surely he could not have left them at the camp. With feverish haste
he overturned his pack. No, they were not there. Could he have dropped them on
the trail? He had a wild idea of going back. Then he thought of Locasto lying in
the tent. He could never face that. But he must have a fire. He was freezing to
deathright now. Already his fingers were tingling and stiffening.

Huh! maybe he had some matches in his pockets. Noyes, he hadone, two,
three, four, five, that was all. Five slim sulphur matches, part of a block, and
jammed in a corner of his waistcoat pocket. Eagerly he lit one. The twigs
caught. The flame leapt up. Oh it was good! He had a fire, a fire.

He made tea, and ate some bread and meat. Then he felt his strength and
courage return. He had four matches left. Four matches meant four fires. That
would mean four more days' travel. By that time he would have reached the Dawson
country.

That night he made a huge blaze, chopping down several trees and setting them
alight. There, lying in his sleeping-bag, he rested well. In the early dawn he
was afoot once more.

Was there ever such an atrocious soul-freezing cold! He cursed it with every
breath he drew. At noon he felt a vast temptation to make another fire, but he
refrained. Then that night he had bad luck, for one of his precious matches
proved little more than a sliver tipped with the shadow of pink. In spite of his
efforts it was abortive, and he was compelled
to use another. He was down to his last match.

Well, he must travel extra hard. So next day in a panic of fear he covered a
vast stretch of country. He must be getting near to one of the gold creeks. As
he surmounted the crest of every ridge he expected to see the blue smoke of
cabin fires, yet always was there the same empty desolation. Then night came and
he prepared to camp.

Once more he chopped down some trees and piled them in a heap. He was very
hungry, very cold, very tired. What a glorious blaze he would soon have! How
gallantly the flames would leap and soar! He collected some dry moss and twigs.
Never had he felt the cold so bitter. It was growing dusk. Above him the sky had
a corpse-like glimmer, and on the snow strange bale-fires glinted. It was a
weird, sardonic light that waited, keeping tryst with darkness.

He shuddered and his fingers trembled. Then ever so carefully he drew forth
that most precious of things, the last match.

He must hurry; his fingers were tingling, freezing, stiffening fast. He would
lie down on the snow, and strike it quickly.... "O God!"

From his numb fingers the slim little match had dropped. There it lay on the
snow. Gingerly he picked it up, with a wild hope that it would be all right. He
struck it, but it doubled up. Again he struck it: the head came offhe was
lost.

He fell forward on his face. His hands were numb, dead. He lay supported by
his elbows, his
eyes
gazing blankly at the unlit fire. Five minutes passed; he did not rise. He
seemed dazed, stupid, terror-stricken. Five more minutes passed. He did not
move. He seemed to stiffen, to grow rigid, and the darkness gathered around
him.

A thought came to his mind that he would straighten out, so that when they
found him he would be in good shape to fit in a coffin. He did not want them to
break his legs and arms. Yes, he would straighten out. He triedbut he could
not, so he let it go at that.

Over him the Wild seemed to laugh, a laugh of scorn, of mockery, of exquisite
malice.

And there in fifteen minutes the cold slew him. When they found him he lay
resting on his elbows and gazing with blank eyes of horror at his unlit
fire.

"It's a beast of a night," said the Halfbreed.

He and I were paying a visit to Jim in the cabin he had built on Ophir. Jim
was busy making ready for his hydraulic work of the coming Spring, and once in a
while we took a run up to see him. I was much worried about the old man. He was
no longer the cheerful, optimistic Jim of the trail. He had taken to living
alone. He had become grim and taciturn. He cared only for his work, and, while
he read his Bible more than ever, it was with a growing fondness for the stern
old prophets. There was no doubt the North was affecting him strangely.

"Lord! don't it blow? Seems as if the wind had a spite against us, wanted to
put us out of business. It minds me of the blizzards we have in the Northwest,
only it seems ten times worse."

The Halfbreed went on to tell us of snowstorms he had known, while huddled
round the stove we listened to the monstrous uproar of the gale.

"Why don't you chink your cabin better, Jim?" I asked; "the snow's sifting
through in spots."

He shoved more wood into the stove, till it glowed to a dull red, starred
with little sparks that came and went.

"Snow with that wind would sift through a concrete wall," he said. "It's part
an' parcel of the
awful
land. I tell you there's a curse on this country. Long, long ago godless people
have lived in it, lived an' sinned an' perished. An' for its wickedness in the
past the Lord has put His everlasting curse on it."

Sharply I looked at him. His eyes were staring. His face was drawn into a
knot of despair. He sat down and fell into a mood of gloomy silence.

How the storm was howling! The Half breed smoked his cigarette stolidly,
while I listened and shuddered, mightily thankful that I was so safe and
warm.

"Say, I wonder if there's any one out in this bedlam of a night?"

"If there is, God help him," said the Halfbreed. "He'll last about as long as
a snowball in hell."

"Yes, fancy wandering round out there, dazed and desperate; fancy the wind
knocking you down and heaping the snow on you; fancy going on and on in the
darkness till you freeze stiff. Ugh!"

Again I shuddered. Then, as the other two sat in silence, my mind strayed to
other things. Chiefly I thought of Berna, all alone in Dawson. I longed to be
back with her again. I thought of Locasto. Where in his wild wanderings had he
got to? I thought of Glengyle and Garry. How had he fared after Mother died? Why
did he not marry? Once a week I got a letter from him, full of affection and
always urging me to come home. In my letters I had never mentioned Berna. There
was time enough for that.

Lord! a terrific
gust of wind shook the cabin. It howled and screamed insanely through the
heaving night. Then there came a lull, a strange, deep lull, deathlike after the
mighty blast. And in the sudden quiet it seemed to me I heard a hollow cry.

"Hist! What was that?" whispered the Halfbreed.

Jim, too, was listening intently.

"Seems to me I heard a moan."

"Sounded like the cry of an outcast soul. Maybe it's the spirit of some poor
devil that's lost away out in the night. I hate to open the door for nothing. It
will make the place like an ice-house."

Once more we listened intently, holding our breath. There it was again, a
low, faint moan.