第 五十九 章 · BOOK IV CHAPTER XII

"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.

"It's some one outside," gasped the Halfbreed. Horror-stricken, we

stared at each other, then he rushed to the door. A great gust of wind

came in on us.

"Hurry up, you fellows," he cried; "lend a hand. I think it's a man."

Frantically we pulled it in, an unconscious form that struck a strange

chill to our hearts. Anxiously we bent over it.

"He's not dead," said the Halfbreed, "only badly frozen, hands and feet

and face. Don't take him near the fire."

He had been peering inside the parka hood and suddenly he turned to me.

"Well, I'm darned--it's Locasto."

Locasto! I shrank back and stood there staring blankly. Locasto! all

the old hate resurged into my heart. Many a time had I wished him dead;

and even dying, never could I have forgiven him. As I would have shrank

from a reptile, I drew back.

"No, no," I said hoarsely, "I won't touch him. Curse him! Curse him! He

can die."

"Come on there," said Jim fiercely. "You wouldn't let a man die, would

you? There's the brand of a dog on you if you do. You'll be little

better than a murderer. It don't matter what wrong he's done you, it's

your duty as a man to help him. He's only a human soul, an' he's like to

die anyway. Come on. Get these mits off his hands."

Mechanically I obeyed him. I was dazed. It was as if I was impelled by a

stronger will than my own. I began pulling off the mits. The man's hands

were white as putty. I slit the sleeves and saw that the awful whiteness

went clear up the arm. It was horrible.

Jim and the Halfbreed had cut open his mucklucks and taken off his

socks, and there stretched out were two naked limbs, clay-white almost

to the knees. Never did I see anything so ghastly. Tearing off his

clothing we laid him on the bed, and forced some brandy between his

lips.

At last heat was beginning to come back to the frozen frame. He moaned,

and opened his eyes in a wild gaze. He did not know us. He was still

fighting the blizzard. He raised himself up.

"Keep a-going, keep a-going," he panted.

"Keep that bucket a-going," said the Halfbreed. "Thank God, we've got

plenty of ice-water. We've got to thaw him out."

Then for this man began a night of agony, such as few have endured. We

lifted him onto a chair and put one of those clay-cold feet into the

water. At the contact he screamed, and I could see ice crystallise on

the edge of the bucket. I had forgotten my hatred of the man. I only

thought of those frozen hands and feet, and how to get life into them

once more. Our struggle began.

"The blood's beginning to circulate back," said the Halfbreed. "I guess

that water feels scalding hot to him right now. We'll have to hold him

down presently. Ugh--hold on, boys, for all you're worth."

He had not warned us any too soon. In a terrible spasm of agony Locasto

threw us off quickly. We grasped him again. Now we were struggling with

him. He fought like a demon. He was cursing us, praying us to leave him

alone, raving, shrieking. Grimly we held on, yet, all three, it was as

much as we could do to keep him down.

"One would think we were murdering him," said the Halfbreed. "Keep his

foot in the bucket there. I wish we'd some kind of dope to give him.

There's boiling lead running through his veins right now. Keep him down,

boys; keep him down."

It was hard, but keep him down we did; though his cries of anguish

deafened us through that awful night, and our muscles knotted as we

gripped. Hour after hour we held him, plunging now a hand, now a foot

in the ice-water, and holding it there. How long he fought! How strong

he was! But the time came when he could fight no more. He was like a

child in our hands.

There, at last it was done. We wrapped the tender flesh in pieces of

blanket. We laid him moaning on the bed. Then, tired out with our long

struggle, we threw ourselves down and slept like logs.

Next morning he was still unconscious. He suffered intense pain, so that

Jim or the Halfbreed had to be ever by him. I, for my part, refused to

go near. Indeed, I watched with a growing hatred his slow recovery. I

was sorry, sorry. I wished he had died.

At last he opened his eyes, and feebly he asked where he was. After the

Halfbreed had told him, he lay silent awhile.

"I've had a close call," he groaned. Then he went on triumphantly: "I

guess the Wild hasn't got the bulge on me yet. I can give it another

round."

He began to pick up rapidly, and there in that narrow cabin I sat within

a few feet of him, and beheld him grow strong again. I suppose my face

must have showed my bitter hate, for often I saw him watching me through

half-closed eyes, as if he realised my feelings. Then a sneering smile

would curve his lips, a smile of satanic mockery. Again and again I

thought of Berna. Fear and loathing convulsed me, and at times a great

rage burned in me so that I was like to kill him.

"Seems to me everything's healing up but that hand," said the

Halfbreed. "I guess it's too far gone. Gangrene's setting in. Say,

Locasto, looks like you'll have to lose it."

Locasto had been favouring me with a particularly sardonic look, but at

these words the sneer was wiped out, and horror crowded into his eyes.

"Lose my hand--don't tell me that! Kill me at once! I don't want to be

maimed. Lose my hand! Oh, that's terrible! terrible!"

He gazed at the discoloured flesh. Already the stench of him was making

us sick, but this hand with its putrid tissues was disgusting to a

degree.

"Yes," said the Halfbreed, "there's the line of the gangrene, and it's

spreading. Soon mortification will extend all up your arm, then you'll

die of blood poison. Locasto, better let me take off that hand. I've

done jobs like that before. I'm a handy man, I am. Come, let me take it

off."

"Heavens! you're a cold-blooded butcher. You're going to kill me,

between you all. You're in a plot leagued against me, and that

long-faced fool over there's at the bottom of it. Damn you, then, go on

and do what you want."

"You're not very grateful," said the Halfbreed. "All right, lie there

and rot."

At his words Locasto changed his tune. He became alarmed to the point of

terror. He knew the hand was doomed. He lay staring at it, staring,

staring. Then he sighed, and thrust its loathsomeness into our faces.

"Come on," he growled. "Do something for me, you devils, or I'll do it

myself."

* * * * *

The hour of the operation was at hand. The Halfbreed got his jack-knife

ready. He had filed the edge till it was like a rough saw. He cut the

skin of the wrist just above the gangrene line, and raised it up an inch

or so. It was here Locasto showed wonderful nerve. He took a large bite

of tobacco and chewed steadily, while his keen black eyes watched every

move of the knife.

"Hurry up and get the cursed thing off," he snarled.

The Halfbreed nicked the flesh down to the bone, then with the ragged

jack-knife he began to saw. I could not bear to look. It made me deathly

sick. I heard the grit, grit of the jagged blade. I will remember the

sound to my dying day. How long it seemed to take! No man could stand

such torture. A groan burst from Locasto's lips. He fell back on the

bed. His jaws no longer worked, and a thin stream of brown saliva

trickled down his chin. He had fainted.

Quickly the Halfbreed finished his work. The hand dropped on the floor.

He pulled down the flaps of skin and sewed them together.

"How's that for home-made surgery?" he chuckled. He was vastly proud of

his achievement. He took the severed hand upon a shovel and, going to

the door, he threw it far out into the darkness.