CHAPTER XVI
THE TRAIL OF THE CARIBOU
When Blake was awakened by Harding, the cold was almost unendurable, and it cost him a determined effort to rise from the hollow he had scraped out of the snow and lined with spruce twigs close beside the fire. He had not been warm there, and it was significant that the snow was dry; but sleep had brought him relief from discomfort, and he had found getting up the greatest hardship of the trying journey. In answer to his drowsy questions, Harding said he had once or twice heard a wolf howl in the distance, but that was all; and then he lay down, leaving Blake on guard.
Blake sat with his back to a snowbank, which afforded a slight shelter. He imagined from his sensations that the temperature must be about fifty degrees below zero. The frost bit through him, stiffening his muscles until he felt that if vigorous movement were demanded of him he would be incapable of it. His brain was dulled; he could not reason clearly, though he had things to consider; and he looked about with heavy eyes, trying to forget his physical discomfort, while his mind wandered through a maze of confused thought.
There was a half-moon in the sky, which was pitilessly clear, for cloudiness might have made it warmer; when the firelight sank, the slender spruce trunks cut sharply against the silvery radiance and the hard glitter of the snow. Everything was tinted with blue and white, and the deathly cold coloring was depressing.
Blake began to consider their position, which was serious. They were worn out and half-fed; their furs were ragged; and shortage of money and the difficulty of transport had forced them to cut down their camp equipment. Indeed, looking back on the long march, Blake was surprised that they had escaped crippling frostbite; although both Benson and Harding were somewhat lame from the strain which the use of snowshoes puts on the muscles of the leg. There was, moreover, a risk of this becoming dangerous; and it was probably two hundred miles to the Hudson Bay post. The chances of their reaching it seemed very slight.
Just then a howl rang, harsh and ominous, through the frosty air. With a nervous start, Blake grabbed his rifle. The wolves had scented them. Turning his back to the light, he spent some minutes gazing fixedly at the glistening white patches among the straggling trees, but he could make out none of the stealthy, flitting shapes he had half expected to see. It was encouraging that the wolves had not overcome their timidity of the fire. Keen hunger would have driven them to an attack; and Blake had no illusions about the result of that. However, the fierce brutes were not starving; they must have found something to eat; and what a wolf could eat would feed men who were by no means fastidious.
Seeing nothing that alarmed him, Blake resumed his musing. Their search for the gum had proved useless. He pitied Harding, who had staked his future upon its success. The man had not complained much; but Blake knew what he must feel; and he thought with compassion of the lonely woman who had bravely sent her husband out and was now waiting for him in the mean discomfort of a cheap tenement. It was not difficult to imagine her anxiety and suspense.
Next he began to ponder his own affairs, which were not encouraging, though he did not think he really regretted the self-sacrificing course he had taken. His father had died involved in debt, and Blake suspected that it had cost Colonel Challoner something to redeem the share of his mother's property which brought him in a small income. That it had been carefully tied up was not, he thought, enough to guard it from the Blake extravagance and ingenuity in raising money. Afterward the Colonel had brought him up and sent him into the army, doing so with a generous affection which was very different from cold charity, and which demanded some return. Then, Bertram had never been jealous of the favor shown his cousin, but had given him warm friendship; and Blake, who was much the stronger, had now and then stood between the lad and harm. He had done so again in Bertram's greatest need, and now he must not grumble at the consequences.
Of late they had seemed heavier than formerly, for in tempting him Clarke had made a telling suggestion—suppose he married? This appeared improbable: for one thing, no girl that he was likely to care for would look with favor on a man with his reputation; but he had thought a good deal about Millicent Graham during the long, weary march. He imagined that she had inherited enough of her father's reckless character to make her willing to take a risk. She would not have a man betray his friend for an advantage that he might gain; she had a courage that would help her, for love's sake, to tread a difficult path. Still, there was no reason to believe that she had any love for him; or, indeed, that she thought of him except as a stranger to whom she had, perhaps, some reason to be grateful.
Resolutely breaking off this train of thought, he threw fresh wood on the fire, and sat shivering and making plans for the march to the factory, until Benson relieved him. When the gray dawn broke above the trees, he got up stiff with cold; and, after eating his share of a very frugal breakfast, he carefully examined his rifle. Though he kept it clean of superfluous grease, there was some risk of the striker and magazine-slide freezing; and a missfire might prove disastrous. Glancing up between the branches, he noticed the low, dingy sky; although he thought it was not quite so cold.
"I'm going to look for a caribou," he said. "I'll be back by dark."
"We'll have snow," Harding warned him. "If there's much, you'll find it hard to get home."
"I'd find it harder to do without breakfast and supper, which is what may happen very soon."
"Anyway, you had better take one of us along."
"With the ax?" Blake said, laughing. "It's bad enough to reach a caribou with a rifle. Benson's as poor a hand at stalking as I know, while a day's rest may save you from getting a snowshoe leg. As we haven't a sled, it would be awkward to carry you to the factory."
They let him go; but when he reached the open his face hardened. The sky had a threatening look, the snow was soft, and there were wolves about; but he was comparatively safe while daylight lasted, and food must be found. During the morning he saw wolf tracks, but no sign of a deer, and at noon he sat down for a few minutes in a sheltered hollow and managed to light the half-frozen pipe he kept in an inner pocket. He had brought nothing to eat, for they had decided that it would be prudent to dispense with a midday meal. Getting stiffly on his feet, after he had smoked a while, he plodded from bluff to bluff throughout the afternoon. For the most part, they were thin and the trees very small, while the country between them seemed to be covered with slabs of rocks and stones. It was utterly empty, with no sign of life in it, but Blake continued his search until the light began to fail, when he stopped to look about.
No snow had fallen, but the sky was very thick and a stinging wind had risen. He would have trouble in reaching camp if his trail got drifted up. He knew that he should have turned back earlier; but there was what seemed to be an extensive woods in front, and he could not face the thought of returning empty-handed to his half-starved companions. The gray trees were not far away; he might reach them and make a mile or two on the back trail before dark, though he was weary and hunger had given him a distressing pain in his left side.
Quickening his pace, he neared the bluff. It looked very black and shadowy against the snow, which now was fading to a curious, lifeless gray. The trees were stunted and scattered; that made it possible for him to get through, though there were half-covered, fallen branches which entangled his big snowshoes. He could see no tracks of any animal, and hardly expected to do so; but, in a savage mood, he held on, without much caution, until he entered a belt of broken ground strewn with rocky hillocks. Here he could not see where he was going, and it was almost dark in the hollows; but he had learned that chance sometimes favors the hunter as much as careful stalking. Stopping for breath a moment, halfway up a steep ascent, he started, for a shadowy object unexpectedly appeared on the summit. It was barely distinguishable against the background of trees, but Blake saw the broad-tined horns in an opening and knew it for a caribou.
There was no time to lose; the swift creature would take flight in an instant; and, almost as he caught sight of it, the rifle went up to his shoulder. For a moment the foresight wavered across the indistinct form, and then his numbed hands grew steady, and, trusting that nothing would check the frost-clogged action, he pressed the trigger. He felt the jar of the butt, a little smoke blew in his eyes, and he could make out nothing on the crest of the ridge. It seemed impossible, however, that he had missed, and the next moment he heard a heavy floundering in the snow among the rocks above. He went up the slope at a savage run, and plunged down a precipitous hollow, on the farther side of which a half-seen object was moving through the gloom of the trees. Stopping a moment, he threw up the rifle, and after the thin red flash the deer staggered and collapsed.
Running on in desperate haste, he fell upon it with his hunting knife; and then stopped, feeling strangely limp and breathless, with the long blade dripping in his hand. Now that the caribou lay dead before him, the strain of the last few minutes made itself felt. Surprised by a sudden and unexpected opportunity when he was exhausted and weak from want of food, he had forced upon himself sufficient steadiness to shoot. It had cost him an effort; the short, fierce chase had tried him hard; and now the reaction had set in. For all that, he was conscious of a savage, exultant excitement. Here was food, and food meant life!
His first impulse was to light a fire and feast, but as he grew calmer he began to think. He was a long way from camp, and he feared that if he rested he could not force himself to resume the march. Besides, there were the wolves to reckon with; and he could not escape if they followed him in the dark. Prudence suggested that he should cut off as much meat as possible, and after placing it out of reach in a tree, set off for camp at his best speed without taking any of the raw flesh to scent the air; but this was more than he could bring himself to do. His comrades were very hungry, and some animal might climb to the frozen meat. It was unthinkable that he should run any risk of losing the precious food. He decided to take as much as he could carry, and store the rest in a tree; and he set to work with the hunting knife in anxious haste.
It was now quite dark; he could not see what he was cutting, and if he gashed his hand, which was numbed and almost useless, the wound would not heal. Then the haft of the knife grew slippery, and tough skin and bone turned the wandering blade. It was an unpleasant business, but the man could not be fastidious, and he tore the flesh off with his fingers, knowing that he was in danger while he worked. There were wolves in the neighborhood, and their scent for blood was wonderfully keen; it was a question whether they would reach the spot before he had left it. When he stopped to clean the knife in the snow he cast a swift glance about.
He could see nothing farther off than a fallen trunk about a dozen yards away; beyond that the trees had faded into a somber mass. A biting wind wailed among them, causing the needles to rustle harshly; but except for this there was a daunting silence. Blake began to feel a horror of the lonely wood and a longing to escape into the open, though he would be no safer there. But to give way to this weakness would be dangerous; and, pulling himself together, he went to work more calmly.
It was difficult to reach the branches of the spruce he chose, and when he had placed the first load of meat in safety he was tempted to flight. Indeed, for some moments he stood irresolute, struggling to hold his fears in subjection; and then he went back for another supply. He climbed the tree three times before he was satisfied that he had stored enough, and afterward he gathered up as much of the flesh as he could conveniently carry. It would soon freeze, but not before it had left a scent that any wolf which might happen to be near could follow.
He left the woods with a steady stride, refraining from attempting a faster pace than he could keep up, but when he had gone a mile he felt distressed. His load, which included the rifle, was heavy, and he had been exerting himself since early morning. The wind was in his face, lashing it until the cold became intolerable; the dry snow was loose, and had drifted over his outward trail. Still, he was thankful that no more had fallen, and he thought that he knew the quarter he must make for. Now that he was in the open, he could see some distance, for the snow threw up a dim light. It stretched away before him, a sweep of glimmering gray, and the squeaking crunch it made beneath his shoes emphasized the overwhelming silence.
Skirting a bluff he did not remember, he stopped in alarm, until a taller clump of trees which he thought he knew caught his searching eyes. If he were right, he must incline farther to the east to strike the shortest line to camp; and he set off, breathing heavily and longing to fling away his load. Cold flakes stung his face, and a creeping haze obscured his view in the direction where he expected to find the next woods. He was within a hundred yards of the nearest trees when he saw them, and as he left the woods it was snowing hard. His heart sank as he launched out into the open, for he had now no guide, and having neither ax nor blanket he could not make a fire and camp in a bluff, even if he could find one. It looked as if he must perish should he fail to reach the camp.
He had only a hazy recollection of floundering on, passing a bluff he could not locate, and here and there a white rock, while the snow fell thicker and its surface got worse. Then, when he felt he could go no farther, he heard a howl behind him, and then another.
With the wolves on his trail, Blake quickened his speed to his utmost limit. As a last resort he could throw away the meat, and they would stop for that; but they were still some distance back of him and he held on grimly to his precious load. It meant life to him and to his starving companions. His feet sank into the soft snow; the wind blew him back cruelly; a cloud had come over the moon, obscuring what little light he had; but, worst of all, one of his snowshoes was loose. With the cry of the wolves behind him, he did not dare stop to tighten it, although it impeded his progress greatly. He struggled forward as the howls drew nearer; and then, when it seemed that he would have to give up, a faint glow of light broke out and he turned toward it with a hoarse cry. An answer reached him, the light grew brighter, and he was in among the trees.
Benson met him, and a minute later he flung himself down, exhausted, by the fire.
"I've brought you your supper, boys," he gasped, "but the wolves are on my trail!"
Harding grabbed the rifle, while Benson poked at the fire until a larger flame swept up, lighting clearly a radius of several yards; but the wolves, fearing the fire or scenting some other prey, had branched off to the right, and the men could hear their howls growing fainter in the distance.
"We'll have a feast to-night, boys," Benson said, hastily preparing the meal.
They ate with keen appetite, and afterward went to sleep; and when they reached the woods the next morning nothing was left of the caribou except the meat in the tree and a few clean-picked bones.
With a sufficient quantity of meat to stave off their anxiety regarding the question of food, the men spent two days enjoying a badly needed rest; and then they pushed on, making forced marches which severely taxed their strength. Part of their way, however, lay across open country, for they were near the northern edge of the timber belt, and the straggling trees, dwarfed and bent by the wind, ran east and west in a deeply indented line. In some places they boldly stretched out toward the Pole in long promontories; in others they fell back in wide bays which Blake, steering by compass, held straight across, afterward plunging again into the scrub. Three days were spent in struggling through the broadest tongue, but, as a rule, a few hours' arduous march brought them out into the open. Even there the ground was very rough and broken, and they were thankful for the numerous frozen creeks and lakes which provided an easier road.
Pushing on stubbornly, camping where they could find shelter and wood, for they could hardly have survived a night spent in the open without a fire, they made, by calculation, two hundred miles; and Blake believed that they must surely be near the Hudson Bay post.