Blake's Burden

by Harold Bindloss

"I don't think it's worse than it was last night," Harding answered. "If I'm careful how I go, it ought to stand another journey."

He made a grimace as he stretched out the limb, which was very sore, for during the last few days the strain the snowshoe threw on the muscles had nearly disabled him. Now he knew it would be difficult to hold out for another journey, but he had grown accustomed to pain and weariness and hunger. They were, he imagined, the lot of all who braved the rigours of winter in the northern wilds.

"Well," said Benson, "there's no use in carrying anything that's not strictly needful and the empty grub-bag may stay behind. Then here's a pair of worn out moccasins I was keeping as a stand by. I should be able to get new ones at the factory."

"It's still some distance off," Harding drily reminded him.

"If we don't make it, the chances are that I won't need the things. But what about your collection of gum?"

Nothing had been said on this point for some time, but Harding's face wore a curious look as he took up a bag which weighed three or four pounds.

"Some of the stuff might be used for low-grade varnish, but that's not what I'm out for. I've been trying to believe that a few of the specimens might prove better on analysis, but I guess it's a delusion."

With a quick resolute movement he threw the bag into the fire and when the resin flared up with a thick brown smoke the others regarded him with silent sympathy. This was the end of the project he had expected so much from, but it was obvious that he could meet failure with fortitude. Nothing that would serve any purpose could be said, and they quietly strapped on their blankets.

There was not much snow when they set off and fortunately the wind blew behind them, but the white haze narrowed in the prospect and Blake, who broke the trail, kept his eyes upon the compass. He was not quite sure of the right line, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was, at least, going straight. After a few minutes, Harding glanced behind. Their camping place had vanished, they were out in an open waste, and he knew that he had started on the last march he was capable of making. Where it would lead him he could not tell, though the answer to the question was of vital importance.

For a time he thought of his wife and wondered with keen anxiety what would become of her if his strength gave way before they reached the post, but he drove these cares out of his mind. It was dangerous to harbour them and served no purpose; his part was to struggle on, swinging the net shoes while he grappled with the pain each step caused him. He shrank from contemplating the distance yet to be covered; it seemed vast to him in his weakness, and he felt himself a feeble, crippled thing. Soft snow and Arctic cold opposed his advance with malignant force, but his worn-out body still obeyed the spur of his will, and he roused himself to fight for the life that had some value to another. He must march, dividing up the distance into short stages that had less effect upon the imagination; limping forward from the ice-glazed rock abreast of him to the white hillock which loomed up dimly where the snow blurred the horizon. Then he would again look ahead from some patch of scrub to the most prominent elevation that he could see.