A LONG SHOT
Hugh Spencer was working as upper man on the whip-saw, and an Indian was trying to extract a cartridge from an old and rusty rifle at his camp down the river. Suddenly there was a report, and Hugh tumbled headlong from his position. His friends sprang to his side, and found blood spurting from a hole in his neck.
The flow was not great, so that their first feeling of horror was changed to hopefulness. John shouted and waved to Haskins, whom he saw standing near his scows. Haskins came running up, was told what had happened, and with the single word, "Wait!" bolted to his tent. He was back again in little more than a minute, with a camp-bed, blankets and all. Few words were spoken, and those in whispers. The injured man was lifted on to the bed, and carried to the tent, his temporary home.
"George, hot water." George was off to the cook-tent at the word, while Haskins got Hugh on his side, the wound uppermost, and Frank arrived hurriedly.
"Boracic acid out of the medicine bag; Frank, you light the fire, and then take off Hugh's boots."
"It don't look as if it was bad," said Haskins, when the wound was washed.
"No," replied John, "I don't think the bullet is far in, it is the shock that has knocked him out; but I have no instruments with which to get the bullet out, and even if I were able to draw it, it might be followed by a rush of blood I should not know how to stop; and then there is the danger of blood poisoning."
"A doctor with his partner is building a boat at White Horse," said Haskins.
"Good! I'll get him! George, you know what to do. Keep a good watch, and when he comes round keep him quiet."
John left the tent, and saw four of the dogs before Frank's kitchen.
"See anything of Dude?" he called to Frank.
"Yes, he was in front of my kitchen all the afternoon." Frank looked out of the tent door. "Say! I've left my door open. I bet he's stole something!" They ran to look. "Yes, a side of bacon's gone. Damn that 'dood'—'heap dam dood,' he!" Frank's sense of humour could not be suppressed by any calamity; but its expression did not stay his activities. He was out of his kitchen and peering into the bushes on the hillside.
"Yes, I thought so; there he is, been up to his cache I located the other day; he's done quick work and is coming back. Don't call him, he'll come quicker without, and he may think we want to lick him for thieving. Come inside."
It seemed an age before the reprobate reappeared before the cabin.
"Don't let on you see him, but walk by and grab him," whispered Frank.
John followed the instructions and was successful.
"Where's the harness?" asked Frank.
"With the sleigh at the tent. I'll get it."
"Here, Two Bits; here, Four Bits; here, Tom, Jerry," and Frank had the team in harness. "Dude!"
Dude went to his place in the lead.
"Hold on a minute."
Frank went into the kitchen, and returned with half a loaf of bread and some fried bacon, in a piece of birch bark.
"Throw this into you as you go."
"How about the dogs?"
"Damn the dogs; I've been feeding them all day."
"Mush!"
Dude looked back and did not move.
"Mush!" He moved ahead at a slow walk.
"Mush, damn you!" John felt surprised to hear himself swear; but the dogs were in the condition styled "ornery." Dude turned in by the side of the building, the others followed; the sleigh bumped against the corner. Frank had Dude by the collar in a moment, and was belabouring him over the flank with a stout stick. The hills reverberated with howls. He hauled the animals back into line, and with a kick for good measure, said in a cold slow tone,
"Mush."
Dude trotted off. Frank ran by the side of the team till they were on the lake. "They'll go all right if you once get them away from camp, but lick 'em good and plenty if they turn mean," was his counsel on quitting.
John Berwick was alone with the team on the great expanse of Lake Le Berge. Before him, to the south, lay the thirty-mile stretch of ice, flanked by rolling hills, flooded with opalescent tints and peace. For an instant the exceeding beauty of the scene gladdened his mind.
He was anxious about Hugh. There were forty-five miles to traverse before he would come to White Horse. The dogs were travelling at five miles an hour: nine hours before he could reach White Horse; and then, if the river were open, what then? The thought of the delay necessitated by a journey overland staggered him. It were easier to travel thirty miles on the ice than fifteen through the bush. He jumped off the sleigh and ran; but the dogs moved no faster; and the labour in running would soon exhaust him, for while there was no snow on the ice, the surface of the lake was a coarse ice-sand, which constituted a poor foothold. The sun was setting; already a chill was in the air. A crust would form within the hour; perhaps the dogs would move faster then.
These thoughts ran through his mind, till his fear developed into a lingering dread. He realized that to go through that intolerable process of analyzing the details of his anxiety could only result in futility. The surface of the lake became harder; he picked up pieces of ice, threw them at Dude, and shouted. Every missile, with its accompanying shout, brought a merely temporary increase of speed. All attempts to get the dogs to gallop proved futile.
It was three o'clock on the following morning when Berwick pounded on the door of the police cabin at White Horse, and was greeted sleepily.
He entered. The flicker of a match showed a man in the act of lighting a candle by the head of a bed built against the wall.
"Man shot at the foot of Le Berge; bullet in his neck; wants doctor."
The policeman jumped from bed, slipped to the door, and pointed to a tent by the river-side.
"The doctor with his partner live in that tent. What is it—accident?"
"Yes; Indian trying to extract a cartridge from an old rifle."
"Damn the Siwashes! Same old story. Well, I have no doubt the doctor will go. I guess you'll need some sleep, so if those fellows can't put you up, return here, and you can climb into bed with me."
John had intended returning to his friend with the doctor, but bolted without comment, save a mere "Thank you."
There is no process of knocking at a tent door, so John used his voice to rouse the occupants.
"What do you want?" was the gruff response.
John gave the necessary information.
"Doc," then said the man to his unseen companion, "there's a chance of doing the Good Samaritan act the preachers talk about."
There was silence for a while as the doctor and his comrade were dressing and preparing; then John asked,
"Can I build a fire outside and cook some dog feed? If you will let me have some feed I'll return it, or pay for it."
"I thought you was a chechacho!" said the gruff voice. "You want the Doc to travel quick?"
"Certainly."
"And the Doc's taking them dogs home?"
"Yes."
"Well, don't feed them."
John Berwick's nature revolted against this theory; but he made no protest, as the life of his mate was in jeopardy.
The doctor packed his hand-bag, and was ready.
"You stay here," he said; "you can do no good down there. Roll in and have a sleep."
Dude was alert, but the other dogs were in repose when they were jerked into life again. The train moved down the river. Fatigued in body and mind, Berwick gladly rested and slept.