CHAPTER XIX
In the tedious hours of waiting after parting from Nell, Jack Reeves was infinitely cheered by the consciousness that he would have for an ally in this crisis one such as Jim Maxwell. Often, there came into the prisoner's thought a memory of how he had last seen the trapper. He had turned for a look back as the sled dropped to the level of the valley. The solitary dweller in that wild place had been standing erect and motionless before the cabin—a splendid figure of a man, posed in unconscious majesty.
A SPLENDID FIGURE OF A MAN, POSED IN UNCONSCIOUS MAJESTY.
There was, of course, the risk that Jim Maxwell might be away from the cabin and so not available to render assistance. That risk, however, could not be avoided, since there was no one else to whom appeal might be made. But Jack was able to hold an optimistic frame of mind. Somehow the effect made upon him by the stranger whom he and Nell had rescued from death was such that he felt a certain confidence as to the outcome of his plan, merely because it depended vitally on the coöperation of Jim Maxwell. Jack was sure that he could have secured this assistance, even had there been no sense of obligation to bind the stranger to his service. With Jim Maxwell's obvious and profound gratitude for having been rescued from death, there could be no doubt concerning his response to the prisoner's call for help.
Though he was busy with thoughts concerning his projected flight, Jack found the day dragging endlessly. It seemed an eternity before at last the shadows lengthened into night. Then, indeed, when patience was least needed, it became most difficult. Now that the time was so near at hand, the minutes crawled with a sluggishness that was exasperating. It seemed to Jack that the sheriff purposed to sit in the adjoining room throughout the night. It was only when he looked at his watch that the fretting captive learned how anxiety deceived him, for it yet lacked a half-hour of the official's usual retiring time.
Finally, since all things have an end, the sheriff stood up, and, after an amiable but formal good-night, went out into the living-quarters of the house. Followed an hour that was still more laggard than any of those that had preceded it in this most laggard day. Jack had decided that there could be no need of waiting until late at night before making his attempt. There were only two classes among the citizens of the town. One went to bed early; the other went very late—if at all. The prisoner hoped that the first class would sleep too soundly to have any knowledge of his undertaking until too late to thwart it; that the second class would be too drunk for serious interference.
When he deemed it time to begin his preparations for escape, Jack gathered the most inflammable parts of the litter on the floor. There was more than sufficient for his purpose, since the sheriff, however great his other official virtues, was by no manner of means a tidy person. This collection of fragments of paper and wood was stacked against the partition that separated the cell from the outer room, midway on one side of the door. The prisoner was at pains to use only paper and splinters, which would burn with little smoke. He had chosen the only possible point of attack for his purpose. The other three walls of the cell were of heavy timbers, which could have been set on fire only with difficulty, and, once well alight, would have assuredly roasted to death any one in the place, since there could have been no possibility of breaking through them.
The situation was different as to the wall in which the door was set. This was made of boards, instead of logs. They were too heavy to be broken through by blows from the heavy chair, which was the only tool available to the prisoner. Jack had conceived the possibility of setting fire to some of the lower boards, and thus weakening them to a point where they would yield to his attack. So, now, when he had placed his kindling in position, he made ready with the match.
Never was a match struck more carefully. It was the only one, and on its aid at the outset the whole attempt of escape rested. Jack breathed a prayer of thanksgiving as the match sputtered and flared to a steady flame. Next moment paper and sticks were burning briskly. The fire mounted, lapping gently at the boards of the wall.
Jack, kneeling closely, watched earnestly. There was nothing more for him to do now; he had only to wait for his servant, the fire, to prepare the way. He shuddered a little at the thought that the servant might become the master—that in the end he might perish miserably in a fire-trap of his own devising.
He stood up, and, by an effort of will, thrust the thought from him, lest fear drain him of the energy needed for the flight to come. He forced himself to think of anything else, rather than of a failure so horrible—of Nell, who would be waiting for him in a mood of hope and despair intermingled; of Jim Maxwell, who would be ready in this time of need. He pictured the trapper with his dogs, waiting patiently on the snow where the spruce shadows fell.
THE TRAPPER, WITH HIS DOGS, WAITING PATIENTLY ON THE SNOW.
The flame rose higher and higher. The dry boards in the partition were smoking. Little lines of sparks ran over the rough surface, then died. The smoke from the boards grew heavier. The acrid odor filled the cell. Jack coughed and dropped again to his knees, in order to avoid the worst of the fumes. The heat increased, but it was not sufficient to cause any particular discomfort. Jack had vastly more fear that the increasing volume of smoke might overcome him before he should have opportunity for carrying out his project. Presently, however, he was greatly heartened by observing that there was draft which carried the greater part of the smoke out of the cell through the grating in the door. As he looked, he saw that the other room was filled already with dense clouds of smoke. He took further comfort from the fact that the fumes were not apparently escaping into the main body of the house, where they might have given the alarm.
In the cell, the lower boards of the partition had burst into flame. The heat from them was now so great that Jack crawled away from it into the farthest corner. The tiny room was like an oven, and to add to the discomfort of it and the deadly danger, the smoke thickened visibly, notwithstanding the current passing out through the door.
Jack realized, with a thrill of horror, that here was a duel—a duel to the death. It was a duel between him and those fiercely darting flames. Rather, it was a duel between him and those blazing boards in the partition—a duel of endurance between him and them. Which would be the first to yield? If the boards should hold out the longer, then he—! Jack shuddered once again, with a wry smile over the irony of fate. Here, in this rigorous climate, men went often hand-in-hand with a Death whose scythe was edged with ice. Jack had contemplated the possibility of being some time struck down by the numbing cold. It had never occurred to him that in this Arctic land he might die in a hell of his own stoking.
The stifling prisoner dared hope that at last the blaze had weakened the boards sufficiently for his purpose. Whether or no, his suffering drove him to action. The heat was intolerable now. Sweat poured from him. The pungent smoke blinded him, and bit cruelly at throat and lungs. Still without rising to his feet, Jack laid hold of the chair, which was just beside him, and hobbled clumsily toward the partition, pushing the chair before him.
Even this comparatively slight exertion caused the perspiration to gush in new abundance, and here, closer to the flame, the temperature was well-nigh unbearable. Jack's head swam. He felt his senses failing. It was only by a tremendous effort that he regained control of himself. He was aware of his mortal peril. Any least weakening or faltering now would mean his destruction. It was, indeed, a duel to the death—a duel of endurance between him and a foe that knew no mercy.
Jack realized, as well, that there could be no delay in the issue. He must act at once, if he were to act at all. A minute later would be forever too late. His brain was reeling. His agonized flesh could not longer withstand the strain. He felt his energies flow out of him like water.... What he would do must be done instantly—or not at all.
Jack drew a long breath, sprang up, swung the chair, and brought it crashing against the boards of the partition where the flames burned most furiously. The wall did not break, though it seemed to yield a little under the blow. But, before he could try another assault, dizziness sent him staggering away from the unbearable heat and smoke of that spot. He dropped to the floor, where he lay stretched at full length, panting in choking breaths. For a few seconds he was in the grip of despair. He felt himself impotent, doomed to shameful death in this furnace-hole.
Nevertheless, the spirit of the young man, albeit fainting, was not dead. It aroused presently. And it quickened the flesh. Once again Jack acted. His brain was dulled. He was hardly conscious of thought. The whole strength of his being was concentrated in his will to make a last, supreme effort. Again, after a deep breath, he leaped to his feet, seized the chair and hurled it against the center of the flaming mass with every atom of his strength.
In the interval since his first attempt, the fire that threatened him with death had, notwithstanding, been working in his behalf, weakening still more the boards, his enemies in this duel of endurance. The heavy chair burst through the blazing barrier and fell noisily in the other room.
Joy surged in the prisoner. Under the stimulus of it, he forgot pain and feebleness. He rushed at the flaming wall and kicked clear a larger opening. Then he plunged through the flames.
Jack fell headlong on the floor of the sheriff's office. By instinct, he remained prostrate, with his face against the floor, else he must have strangled. But instinct urged him onward. He crept toward the window, which, fortunately, was on the side of the room where he had fallen. His eyes were shut fast now, for the smoke had blinded him. But his groping hand, upraised, found the window-sash. Once more Jack held his scant breath as he got to his feet. He drove his elbows through the panes. The zero air enwrapped him. The touch of it was bliss. It brought blessed life to the seared lungs. Jack took one great breath of it. Then he put a foot to the window-ledge, drew himself up and went through, amid the noise of rending glass and wood. Without an instant of pause, or a single glance backward, he was off, plowing his way through the heaped-up snow, which bordered the clear space beyond the buildings. In another minute he was on the solid crust. Thus he ran on in a line parallel with the one street of the village, but behind the buildings that straggled there. He passed the last of these, and saw before him the white reaches of the valley, without sign of life anywhere, beckoning him on to freedom. His stride quickened and he went forward jubilantly.
WITHOUT AN INSTANT PAUSE, HE WAS OFF, PLOWING HIS WAY THROUGH THE SNOW.
A hail came to Jack's ears. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw, a little to the right of the trail, a ghostly silhouette, even as he had pictured it—the trapper, with his dogs, waiting patiently on the snow where the spruce shadows fell.