Chương Chương 58 · BOOK IV CHAPTER XI

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

use--he 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

and--quit. 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 again--the

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 it--the 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 death--right now.

Already his fingers were tingling and stiffening.

Huh! maybe he had some matches in his pockets. No--yes, he had--one,

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 off--he 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

tried--but 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.