บทที่ บทที่ 56 · BOOK IV CHAPTER IX

Two men were crawling over the winter-locked plain. In the aching circle

of its immensity they were like little black ants. One, the leader, was

of great bulk and of a vast strength; while the other was small and

wiry, of the breed that clings like a louse to life while better men

perish.

On all sides of the frozen lake over which they were travelling were

hills covered with harsh pine, that pricked funereally up to the

boulder-broken snows. Above that was a stormy and fantastic sea of

mountains baring many a fierce peak-fang to the hollow heavens. The sky

was a waxen grey, cold as a corpse-light. The snow was an immaculate

shroud, unmarked by track of bird or beast. Death-sealed the land lay in

its silent vastitude, in its despairful desolation.

The small man was breaking trail. Down almost to his knees in the soft

snow, he sank at every step; yet ever he dragged a foot painfully

upward, and made another forward plunge. The snowshoe thong, jagged with

ice, chafed him cruelly. The muscles of his legs ached as insistently as

if clamped in a vice. He lurched forward with fatigue, so that he seemed

to be ever stumbling, yet recovering himself.

"Come on there, you darned little shrimp; get a move on you," growled

the big man from within the frost-fringed hood of his parka.

The little man started as if galvanised into sudden life. His breath

steamed and almost hissed as it struck the icy air. At each raw intake

of it his chest heaved. He beat his mittened hands on his breast to keep

them from freezing. Under the hood of his parka great icicles had

formed, hanging to the hairs of his beard, walrus-like, and his eyes,

thickly wadded with frost, glared out with the furtive fear of a hunted

beast.

"Curse him, curse him," he whimpered; but once more he lifted those

leaden snowshoes and staggered on.

The big man lashed fiercely at the dogs, and as they screamed at his

blows he laughed cruelly. They were straining forward in the harness,

their bellies almost level with the ground, their muscles standing out

like whalebone. Great, gaunt brutes they were, with ribs like

barrel-staves, and hip-bones sharp as stakes. Their woolly coats were

white with frost, their sly, slit-eyed faces ice-sheathed, their feet

torn so that they left a bloody track on the snow at every step.

"Mush on there, you curs, or I'll cut you in two," stormed the big man,

and once again the heavy whip fell on the yelling pack. They were

pulling for all they were worth, their heads down, their shoulders

squared. Their breath came pantingly, their tongues gleamed redly, their

white teeth shone. They were fighting, fighting for life, fighting to

placate a cruel master in a world where all was cruelty and oppression.

For there in the Winter Wild pity was not even a name. It was the

struggle for life, desperate and never-ending. The Wild abhorred life,

abhorred most of all these atoms of heat and hurry in the midst of her

triumphant stillness. The Wild would crush those defiant pigmies that

disputed the majesty of her invincible calm.

A dog was hanging back in the harness. It whined; then as the husky

following snapped at it savagely, it gave a lurch and fell. The big man

shot forward with a sudden fury in his eyes. Swinging the heavy-thonged

whip, again and again he brought it down on the writhing brute. Then he

twisted the thong around his hand and belaboured its hollow ribs with

the butt. It screamed for a while, but soon it ceased to scream; it only

moaned a little. With glistening fangs and ears up-pricked the other

dogs looked at their fallen comrade. They longed to leap on it, to rend

its gaunt limbs apart, to tear its quivering flesh; but there was the

big man with his murderous whip, and they cowered before him.

The big man kicked the fallen dog repeatedly. The little man paused in

his painful progress to look on apathetically.

"You'll stave in its ribs," he remarked presently; "and then we'll never

make timber by nightfall."

The big man had failed in his efforts to rouse the dog. There in that

lancinating cold, in an ecstasy of rage, despairfully he poised over it.

"Who told you to put in your lip?" he snarled. "Who's running this

show, you or I? I'll stave in its ribs if I choose, and I'll hitch you

to the sled and make you pull your guts out, too."

The little man said no more. Then, the dog still refusing to rise, the

big man leapt over the harness and came down on the animal with both

feet. There was a scream of pitiful agony, and the snap of breaking

bones. But the big man slipped and fell. Down he came, and like a flash

the whole pack piled onto him.

For a moment there was a confused muddle of dogs and master. This was

the time for which they had waited, these savage semi-wolves. This man

had beaten them, had starved them, had been a devil to them, and now he

was down and at their mercy. Ferociously they sprang on him, and their

white fangs snapped like traps in his face. They fought to get at his

throat. They tore at his parka. Oh, if they could only make their teeth

meet in his warm flesh! But no; they were all tangled up in the harness,

and the man was fighting like a giant. He had the leader by the throat

and was using her as a shield against the others. His right hand swung

the whip with flail-like blows. Foiled and confused the dogs fell to

fighting among themselves, and triumphantly the man leapt to his feet.

He was like a fiend now. Fiercely he raged among the snarling pack,

kicking, clubbing, cursing, till one and all he had them beaten into

cowering subjection.

He was still panting from his struggle. His face was deathly pale, and

his eyes were glittering. He strode up to the little man, who had

watched the performance stolidly.

"Why didn't you help me, you dirty little whelp?" he hissed. "You wanted

to see them chew me up; you know you did. You'd like to have them rip me

to ribbons. You wouldn't move a finger to save me. Oh, I know, I know.

I've had enough of you this trip to last me a lifetime. You've bucked me

right along. Now, blast your dirty little soul, I hate you, and for the

rest of the way I'm going to make your life hell. See! Now I'll begin."

The little man was afraid. He seemed to grow smaller, while over him

towered the other, dark, fierce and malignant. The little man was

desperate. Defensively he crouched, yet the next instant he was

overthrown. Then, as he lay sprawling in the snow, the big man fell to

lashing him with the whip. Time after time he struck, till the screams

of his victim became one long, drawn-out wail of agony. Then he

desisted. Jerking the other on his feet once more, he bade him go on

breaking trail.

Again they struggled on. The light was beginning to fail, and there was

no thought in their minds but to reach that dark belt of timber before

darkness came. There was no sound but the crunch of their snowshoes, the

panting of the dogs, the rasping of the sleigh. When they paused the

silence seemed to fall on them like a blanket. There was something awful

in the quality of this deathly silence. It was as if something material,

something tangible, hovered over them, closed in on them, choked them,

throttled them. It was almost like a Presence.

Weary and worn were men and dogs as they struggled onwards in the

growing gloom, but because of the feeling in his heart the little man no

longer was conscious of bodily pain. It was black murder that raged

there.

With straining sinews and bones that cracked, the dogs bent to a heavy

pull, while at the least sign of shirking down swished the relentless

whip. And the big man, as if proud of his strength, gazed insolently

round on the Wild. He was at home in this land, this stark wolf-land, so

callous, so cruel. Was he not cruel, too? Surely this land cowered

before him. Its hardships could not daunt him, nor its terrors dismay.

As he urged on his bloody-footed dogs, he exulted greatly. Of all Men of

the High North was he not king?

At last they reached the forest fringe, and after a few harsh directions

he had the little man making camp. The little man worked with a strange

willingness. All his taciturnity had gone. As he gathered the firewood

and filled the Yukon stove, he hummed a merry air. He had the water

boiling and soon there was the fragrance of tea in the little tent. He

produced sourdough bread (which he fried in bacon fat), and some dried

moose-meat.

To men of the trail this was a treat. They ate ravenously, but they did

not speak. Yet the little man was oddly cheerful. Time and again the big

man looked at him suspiciously. Outside it was a steely night, with an

icicle of a moon. The cold leapt on one savagely. To step from the tent

was like plunging into icy water, yet within those canvas walls the men

were warm and snug. The stove crackled its cheer. A grease-light

sputtered, and by its rays the little man was mending his ice-stiffened

moccasins. He hummed an Irish air, and he seemed to be tickled with some

thought he had.

"Stop that tune," growled the other. "If you don't know anything else,

cut it out. I'm sick of it."

The little man shut up meekly. Again there was silence, broken by a

whining and a scratching outside. It was the five dogs crying for their

supper, crying for the frozen fish they had earned so well. They

wondered why it was not forthcoming. When they received it they would

lie on it, to warm it with the heat of their bodies, and then gnaw off

the thawed portions. They were very wise, these dogs. But to-night there

was no fish, and they whined for it.

"Dog feed all gone?"

"Yep," said the small man.

"Hell! I'll silence these brutes anyway."

He went to the door and laid onto them so that they slunk away into the

shadows. But they did not bury themselves in the snow and sleep. They

continued to prowl round the tent, hunger-mad and desperate.

"We've only got enough grub left for ourselves now," said the big man;

"and none too much at that. I guess I'll put you on half-rations."

He laughed as if it was the hugest joke. Then rolling himself in a

robe, he lay down and slept.

The little man did not sleep. He was still turning over the thought that

had come to him. Outside in the atrocious cold the whining malamutes

crept nearer and nearer. Savage were they, Indian raised and sired by a

wolf. And now, in the agonies of hunger, they cried for fish, and there

was none for them, only kicks and curses. Oh, it was a world of ghastly

cruelty! They howled their woes to the weary moon.

"Short rations, indeed," mumbled the little man. He crawled into his

sleeping bag, but he did not close his eyes. He was watching.

About dawn he rose. An evil dawn it was, sallow, sinister and askew.

The little man selected the heavy-handled whip for the job. Carefully he

felt its butt, then he struck. It was a shrewd blow and a neatly

delivered, for the little man had been in the business before. It fell

on the big man's head, and he crumpled up. Then the little man took some

rawhide thongs and trussed up his victim. There lay the big man, bound

and helpless, with a clotted blood-hole in his black hair.

Then the little man gathered up the rest of the provisions. He looked

around carefully, as if fearful of leaving anything behind. He made a

pack of the food and lashed it on his back. Now he was ready to start.

He knew that within fifty miles, travelling to the south, he would

strike a settlement. He was safe.

He turned to where lay the unconscious body of his partner. Again and

again he kicked it; he cursed it; he spat on it. Then, after a final

look of gloating hate, he went off and left the big man to his fate.

At last, at long last, the Worm had turned.