第 七 章 · 第7章

A wall of silence wrapped them in, for the snow, though not thick, was

sufficient to deaden any noise, and the frost held things pretty tight

besides. No sound but their voices and the soft roar of the flames made

itself heard. Only, from time to time, something soft as the flutter of

a pine moth's wings went past them through the air. No one seemed

anxious to go to bed. The hours slipped towards midnight.

"The legend is picturesque enough," observed the doctor after one of the

longer pauses, speaking to break it rather than because he had anything

to say, "for the Wendigo is simply the Call of the Wild personified,

which some natures hear to their own destruction."

"That's about it," Hank said presently. "An' there's no misunderstandin'

when you hear it. It calls you by name right 'nough."

Another pause followed. Then Dr. Cathcart came back to the forbidden

subject with a rush that made the others jump.

"The allegory _is_ significant," he remarked, looking about him into the

darkness, "for the Voice, they say, resembles all the minor sounds of

the Bush--wind, falling water, cries of the animals, and so forth. And,

once the victim hears _that_--he's off for good, of course! His most

vulnerable points, moreover, are said to be the feet and the eyes; the

feet, you see, for the lust of wandering, and the eyes for the lust of

beauty. The poor beggar goes at such a dreadful speed that he bleeds

beneath the eyes, and his feet burn."

Dr. Cathcart, as he spoke, continued to peer uneasily into the

surrounding gloom. His voice sank to a hushed tone.

"The Wendigo," he added, "is said to burn his feet--owing to the

friction, apparently caused by its tremendous velocity--till they drop

off, and new ones form exactly like its own."

Simpson listened in horrified amazement; but it was the pallor on Hank's

face that fascinated him most. He would willingly have stopped his ears

and closed his eyes, had he dared.

"It don't always keep to the ground neither," came in Hank's slow, heavy

drawl, "for it goes so high that he thinks the stars have set him all

a-fire. An' it'll take great thumpin' jumps sometimes, an' run along the

tops of the trees, carrying its partner with it, an' then droppin' him

jest as a fish hawk'll drop a pickerel to kill it before eatin'. An' its

food, of all the muck in the whole Bush is--moss!" And he laughed a

short, unnatural laugh. "It's a moss-eater, is the Wendigo," he added,

looking up excitedly into the faces of his companions. "Moss-eater," he

repeated, with a string of the most outlandish oaths he could invent.

But Simpson now understood the true purpose of all this talk. What

these two men, each strong and "experienced" in his own way, dreaded

more than anything else was--silence. They were talking against time.

They were also talking against darkness, against the invasion of panic,

against the admission reflection might bring that they were in an

enemy's country--against anything, in fact, rather than allow their

inmost thoughts to assume control. He himself, already initiated by the

awful vigil with terror, was beyond both of them in this respect. He had

reached the stage where he was immune. But these two, the scoffing,

analytical doctor, and the honest, dogged backwoodsman, each sat

trembling in the depths of his being.

Thus the hours passed; and thus, with lowered voices and a kind of taut

inner resistance of spirit, this little group of humanity sat in the

jaws of the wilderness and talked foolishly of the terrible and haunting

legend. It was an unequal contest, all things considered, for the

wilderness had already the advantage of first attack--and of a hostage.

The fate of their comrade hung over them with a steadily increasing

weight of oppression that finally became insupportable.

It was Hank, after a pause longer than the preceding ones that no one

seemed able to break, who first let loose all this pent-up emotion in

very unexpected fashion, by springing suddenly to his feet and letting

out the most ear-shattering yell imaginable into the night. He could not

contain himself any longer, it seemed. To make it carry even beyond an

ordinary cry he interrupted its rhythm by shaking the palm of his hand

before his mouth.

"That's for Défago," he said, looking down at the other two with a

queer, defiant laugh, "for it's my belief"--the sandwiched oaths may be

omitted--"that my ole partner's not far from us at this very minute."

There was a vehemence and recklessness about his performance that made

Simpson, too, start to his feet in amazement, and betrayed even the

doctor into letting the pipe slip from between his lips. Hank's face was

ghastly, but Cathcart's showed a sudden weakness--a loosening of all his

faculties, as it were. Then a momentary anger blazed into his eyes, and

he too, though with deliberation born of habitual self-control, got upon

his feet and faced the excited guide. For this was unpermissible,

foolish, dangerous, and he meant to stop it in the bud.

What might have happened in the next minute or two one may speculate

about, yet never definitely know, for in the instant of profound silence

that followed Hank's roaring voice, and as though in answer to it,

something went past through the darkness of the sky overhead at terrific

speed--something of necessity very large, for it displaced much air,

while down between the trees there fell a faint and windy cry of a human

voice, calling in tones of indescribable anguish and appeal--

"Oh, oh! This fiery height! Oh, oh! My feet of fire! My burning feet of

fire!"

White to the very edge of his shirt, Hank looked stupidly about him like

a child. Dr. Cathcart uttered some kind of unintelligible cry, turning

as he did so with an instinctive movement of blind terror towards the

protection of the tent, then halting in the act as though frozen.

Simpson, alone of the three, retained his presence of mind a little. His

own horror was too deep to allow of any immediate reaction. He had heard

that cry before.

Turning to his stricken companions, he said almost calmly--

"That's exactly the cry I heard--the very words he used!"

Then, lifting his face to the sky, he cried aloud, "Défago, Défago! Come

down here to us! Come down--!"

And before there was time for anybody to take definite action one way or

another, there came the sound of something dropping heavily between the

trees, striking the branches on the way down, and landing with a

dreadful thud upon the frozen earth below. The crash and thunder of it

was really terrific.

"That's him, s'help me the good Gawd!" came from Hank in a whispering

cry half choked, his hand going automatically toward the hunting knife

in his belt. "And he's coming! He's coming!" he added, with an

irrational laugh of horror, as the sounds of heavy footsteps crunching

over the snow became distinctly audible, approaching through the

blackness towards the circle of light.

And while the steps, with their stumbling motion, moved nearer and

nearer upon them, the three men stood round that fire, motionless and

dumb. Dr. Cathcart had the appearance of a man suddenly withered; even

his eyes did not move. Hank, suffering shockingly, seemed on the verge

again of violent action; yet did nothing. He, too, was hewn of stone.

Like stricken children they seemed. The picture was hideous. And,

meanwhile, their owner still invisible, the footsteps came closer,

crunching the frozen snow. It was endless--too prolonged to be quite

real--this measured and pitiless approach. It was accursed.