الفصل الفصل 18 · BOOK II CHAPTER VIII

We were camping in Paradise Valley. Before us and behind us the great

Cheechako army laboured along with infinite travail. We had suffered,

but the trail of the land was near its end. And what an end! With every

mile the misery and difficulty of the way seemed to increase. Then we

came to the trail of Rotting Horses.

Dead animals we had seen all along the trail in great numbers, but the

sight as we came on this particular place beggared description. There

were thousands of them. One night we dragged away six of them before we

could find room to put up the tent. There they lay, sprawling horribly,

their ribs protruding through their hides, their eyes putrid in the

sunshine. It was like a battlefield, hauntingly hideous.

And every day was adding to their numbers. The trail ran over great

boulders covered with icy slush, through which the weary brutes sank to

their bellies. Struggling desperately, down they would come between two

boulders. Then their legs would snap like pipe-stems, and there usually

they were left to die.

One would see, jammed in the cleft of a rock, the stump of a hoof, or

sticking up sharply, the jagged splinter of a leg; while far down the

bluff lay the animal to which it belonged. One would see the poor dead

brutes lying head and tail for an hundred yards at a stretch. One would

see them deserted and desperate, wandering round foraging for food. They

would come to the camp at night whinnying pitifully, and with a look of

terrible entreaty on their starved faces. Then one would take pity on

them--and shoot them.

I remember stumbling across a big, heavy horse one night in the gloom.

It was swaying from side to side, and as I drew near I saw its throat

was hideously cut. It looked at me with such agony in its eyes that I

put my handkerchief over its face, and, with the blow of an axe, ended

its misery. The most spirited of the horses were the first to fall. They

broke their hearts in gallant effort. Goaded to desperation, sometimes

they would destroy themselves, throw themselves frantically over the

bluff. Oh, it was horrible! horrible!

Our own horse proved a ready victim. To tell the truth, no one but the

Jam-wagon was particularly sorry. If there was a sump-hole in sight,

that horse was sure to flounder into it. Sometimes twice in one day we

had to unhitch the ox and pull him out. There was a place dug out of the

snow alongside the trail, which was being used as a knacker's yard, and

here we took him with a broken leg and put a bullet in his brain. While

we waited there were six others brought in to be shot.

It was a Sunday and we were in the tent, indescribably glad of a day's

rest. The Jam-wagon was mending a bit of harness; the Prodigal was

playing solitaire. Salvation Jim had just returned from a trip to

Skagway, where he had hoped to find a letter from the outside regarding

one Jake Mosher. His usually hale and kindly face was drawn and

troubled. Wearily he removed his snow-sodden clothes.

"I always did say there was God's curse on this Klondike gold," he said;

"now I'm sure of it. There's a hoodoo on it. What it's a-goin' to cost,

what hearts it's goin' to break, what homes it's goin' to wreck no

man'll ever know. God only knows what it's cost already. But this last

is the worst yet."

"What's the matter, Jim?" I said; "what last?"

"Why, haven't you heard? Well, there's just been a snow-slide on the

Chilcoot an' several hundred people buried."

I stared aghast. Living as we did in daily danger of snow-slides, this

disaster struck us with terror.

"You don't say!" said the Prodigal. "Where?"

"Oh, somewhere's near Lindeman. Hundreds of poor sinners cut off without

a chance to repent."

He was going to improve on the occasion when the Prodigal cut in.

"Poor devils! I guess we must know some of them too." He turned to me.

"I wonder if your little Polak friend's all right?"

Indeed my thoughts had just flown to Berna. Among the exigencies of the

trail (when we had to fix our minds on the trouble of the moment and

every moment had its trouble) there was little time for reflection.

Nevertheless, I had found at all times visions of her flitting before

me, thoughts of her coming to me when I least expected them. Pity,

tenderness and a good deal of anxiety were in my mind. Often I wondered

if ever I would see her again. A feeling of joy and a great longing

would sweep over me in the hope. At these words then of the Prodigal, it

seemed as if all my scattered sentiments crystallised into one, and a

vast desire that was almost pain came over me. I suppose I was silent,

grave, and it must have been some intuition of my thoughts that made the

Prodigal say to me:

"Say, old man, if you would like to take a run over the Dyea trail, I

guess I can spare you for a day or so."

"Yes, indeed, I'd like to see the trail."

"Oh, yes, we've observed your enthusiastic interest in trails. Why don't

you marry the girl? Well, cut along, old chap. Don't be gone too long."

So next morning, travelling as lightly as possible, I started for

Bennett. How good it seemed to get off unimpeded by an outfit, and I

sped past the weary mob, struggling along on the last lap of their

journey. I had been in some expectation of the trail bettering itself,

but indeed it appeared at every step to grow more hopelessly terrible.

It was knee-deep in snowy slush, and below that seemed to be literally

paved with dead horses.

I only waited long enough at Bennett to have breakfast. A pie nailed to

a tent-pole indicated a restaurant, and there, for a dollar, I had a

good meal of beans and bacon, coffee and flapjacks. It was yet early

morning when I started for Linderman.

The air was clear and cold, ideal mushing weather, and already parties

were beginning to struggle into Bennett, looking very weary and jaded.

On the trail a man did a day's work by nine in the morning, another by

four in the afternoon, and a third by nightfall. You were lucky to get

off at that.

I was jogging along past the advance guard of the oncoming army, when

who should I see but Mervin and Hewson. They looked thoroughly seasoned,

and had made record time with a large outfit. In contrast to the worn,

weary-eyed men with faces pinched and puckered, they looked insolently

fit and full of fight. They had heard of the snow-slide but could give

me no particulars. I inquired for Berna and the old man. They were

somewhere behind, between Chilcoot and Lindeman. "Yes, they were

probably buried under the slide. Good-bye."

I hurried forward, full of apprehension. A black stream of Cheechakos

were surging across Lindeman; then I realised the greatness of the other

advancing army, and the vastness of the impulse that was urging these

indomitable atoms to the North. It was blowing quite hard and many had

put up sails on their sleds with good effect. I saw a Jew driving an ox,

to which he had four small sleds harnessed. On each of these he had

hoisted a small sail. Suddenly the ox looked round and saw the sails.

Here was something that did not come within the scope of his

experience. With a bellow of fear, he stampeded, pursued by a yelling

Hebrew, while from the chain of sleds articles scattered in all

directions. When last I saw them in the far distance, Jew and ox were

still going.

Why was I so anxious about Berna? I did not know, but with every mile my

anxiety increased. A dim unreasoning fear possessed me. I imagined that

if anything happened to her I would forever blame myself. I saw her

lying white and cold as the snow itself, her face peaceful in death. Why

had I not thought more of her? I had not appreciated her enough, her

precious sweetness and her tenderness. If only she was spared, I would

show her what a good friend I could be. I would protect her and be near

her in case of need. But then how foolish to think anything could have

happened to her. The chances were one in a hundred. Nevertheless, I

hurried forward.

I met the Twins. They had just escaped the slide, they told me, and had

not yet recovered from the shock. A little way back on the trail it was.

I would see men digging out the bodies. They had dug out seventeen that

morning. Some were crushed as flat as pancakes.

Again, with a pain at my heart, I asked after Berna and her grandfather.

Twin number one said they were both buried under the slide. I gasped and

was seized with sudden faintness. "No," said twin number two, "the old

man is missing, but the girl has escaped and is nearly crazy with

grief. Good-bye."

Once more I hurried on. Gangs of men were shovelling for the dead. Every

now and then a shovel would strike a hand or a skull. Then a shout would

be raised and the poor misshapen body turned out.

Again I put my inquiries. A busy digger paused in his work. He was a

sottish-looking fellow, and there was something of the glare of a ghoul

in his eyes.

"Yes, that must have been the old guy with the whiskers they dug out

early on from the lower end of the slide. Relative, name of Winklestein,

took charge of him. Took him to the tent yonder. Won't let any one go

near."

He pointed to a tent on the hillside, and it was with a heavy heart I

went forward. The poor old man, so gentle, so dignified, with his dream

of a golden treasure that might bring happiness to others. It was cruel,

cruel....

"Say, what d'ye want here? Get to hell outa this."

The words came with a snarl. I looked up in surprise.

There at the door of the tent, all a-bristle like a gutter-bred cur, was

Winklestein.