The long patrol

by Albert M. Treynor

The corporal nodded quietly, crossed the room and took his place at the table, opposite the glowering Crill. Alison came forward in trepidation to remove the empty plates; and for the present at least, the incident was closed.

Dexter returned to his dinner with unaffected appetite, quite as though nothing had happened; and when he had finished he pushed back his stool and invited his sulky companion to go outside with him for a walk.

The branching creek still rushed in swollen torrents around the little island, boiling and roaring among the rocks, carrying masses of ice and gyrating tree trunks along with the currents. The flood ran level with the high-water mark of the afternoon, and apparently the spring rise had reached its highest stage. From now on the water probably would gradually recede, but Dexter knew by previous experience with wilderness freshets, it might take two or three days longer before he could expect to recross the ford. He scanned the length of turbulent rapids, and shook his head. If Stark's party failed to show up in the meanwhile, and if he could force himself to stay awake for two more days and nights, he might escape from the island. But at that moment the prospects were not cheering.

When he went back to the cabin, he ordered Crill to retire into his marked circle before the fireplace. "I'm not going to stand for any more foolishness," he remarked with an assurance he was far from feeling. "That's your spot, and I advise you to stay in it."

Alison had already crept into her bunk. Her soft hair was tumbled over her face, and her head lay pillowed on her extended arm. She seemed to be asleep. Dexter looked down at her, and his lips quivered into a wistful, tender smile. For a moment he stood motionless in the concealing shadow by the bunk, and then, with a slow-drawn breath he tiptoed across the floor to dim the light of the lantern. A brief inspection of the inner premises assured him that the door and window shutters were fastened, and he retreated to his own corner of the room to take up his second night's vigil.

The fear that he might go to sleep had grown like a haunting specter in his mind. He knew that if he once allowed himself to drop off, he would sink into a deep slumber, from which there would be no awakening. Afraid to lie down, he planted himself on a stool, leaned his head and shoulders against the wall, and made himself as comfortable as he dared.

So he spent the night, listening as in an evil dream to the mutter of the rapids outside, nodding and dozing, but arousing himself each time he felt the muscles of his body begin to sag; conning over all the fragments of verse he could remember, doing sums in mental arithmetic; somehow forcing his reluctant brain to keep on functioning. He managed to watch out the night, but dawn found him slumping on his stool, haggard and hollow-eyed, knowing that he could not stick it out for many hours more.

By the exertion of all his will power, he managed to hold his leaden eyes open through the interminable hours of daylight. The forking waters had begun to fall, inch by inch. The channel, however, was still too deep for wading. By morning, perhaps, he might venture the crossing. He had not quite decided what he would do if he succeeded in reaching the open shore opposite, but his common sense advised him to let Crill escape. At least he could then creep off in hiding and sleep. Even if he lost a day or two it would not be too late to take up the trail again. But for the present he was in the situation of the trapper who caught the grizzly by the tail. He had his prisoner captive, and he couldn't let go.

The prospect of fighting off sleep through another night appalled him. Coffee had lost the power to stimulate his nerves, and he found himself moving about in a sort of daze, obsessed by the fear that he might doze off, even while he stood on his feet. He had read and re-read all the magazines in the cabin, and out of desperation that evening he sought about him for something to occupy his mind. On the back of one of the shelves he discovered a greasy pack of playing cards. He riffled the deck under his thumb, and cast a speculative glance towards Crill.

"Ever play any cards?" he inquired.