Connie Morgan in Alaska

by James B. Hendryx

"Yes," interrupted the man, speaking slowly, as if to himself. "Yo' only a boy—jest a little boy—an' yet—" his voice became suddenly husky, and he turned away: "Folks calls Sam Mo'gan unlucky!" He cleared his throat loudly, and again the big hand rested on the boy's shoulder:

"Listen, kid, I've had cabins befo' now—a many a one, on big creeks an' little—an' I've come off an' left 'em all, an' neveh a onct was I homesick. But this time I was—it was diffe'nt. Shucks, kid, don't yo' see? It takes mo'n jest a cabin to make—home."

Soon the outfits were ready for the trail.

"We sho' got dawgs enough," grinned Waseche, as he eyed the two teams; "McDougall's ten, eight of mine, an' them three of yo'n—we betteh mush, too, 'cause it takes a sight of feed fo' twenty-one dawgs. I 'lowed to run acrost meat befo' now—caribou, or moose, or sheep—but this heah Lillimuit's as cold an' dead as the outeh voids that the lecture felleh was tellin' about in Dawson. I got right int'rested in the place—till I come to find out it was too fah off to botheh about, bein' located way oveh back of the sun somewheahs."

At a crack of the whip, Waseche's dogs sprang into the lead, and McDougall's malamutes, with Connie trotting beside them, swung in behind. There was no wind, and in the narrow canyon sounds were strangely magnified. The squeak of sled runners on the hard, dry snow sounded loud and sharp as the creak of a windlass, and, as they passed the foot of the snow-covered sheep trail, the voice of Waseche boomed and reverberated unnaturally:

"Yondeh's the ol' sheep trail wheah I got out of the canyon. Neah's I c'n make out it ain't be'n used fo' mo'n a month. I tell yo' what—times is sho' hawd when the sheep pulls out of a country."

It was very cold. Toward midday the windings of the canyon allowed them occasional glimpses of the low-hung sun. It had a strange unfamiliar appearance, like a huge eye of polished brass, glaring coldly in a bright white light not its own. As each turn of the trail cut off his view, the boy glanced furtively at his partner and was quick to note the man's evident uneasiness. Mile after mile they mushed in silence. The fragmentary conversation of the earlier hours ceased, and each experienced a growing sense of exhaustion. The motionless air hung heavy and dead about them. Its vitality was wanting, so that they were forced to breathe rapidly and concentrate their minds upon the simple act of keeping up with the dogs. Each was conscious of a growing lethargy that sapped his strength. Even the dogs were affected, and plodded mechanically forward with lowered heads and drooping tails.

They were approaching the cavern in which Connie had sought refuge from the blizzard. For several miles the boy had been wondering whether Waseche would camp at the cave. He hoped that he would. He was growing terribly sleepy and it was only by constant effort that he kept his eyes open, although they had been scarcely five hours on the trail. His head felt strangely light and hollow, and white specks danced before his eyes. He closed his eyes and the specks were red. They danced in the darkness, writhing and twisting like fiery snakes. He opened his eyes and held doggedly to his place beside the team. His mind dwelt longingly upon the soft, warm feel of his sleeping bag. The boy's nerves were tense and strained, so that his lips and eyelids twitched spasmodically, with a sting as of extreme cold.

As they drew nearer the mouth of the cavern he felt that he would scream aloud if Waseche did not halt. His gaze became fixed upon the broad back of his partner as he mushed beside his dogs, and he noted that the man walked with quick, jerky steps. He wondered vaguely at this, for it was not Waseche's way. This passing thought vanished, and again his mind reverted to the all-important question: would Waseche camp? He would ask him. He filled his lungs—then, suddenly the thought flashed through his brain: "I'm a piker! I won't ask him—I'll drop in my tracks first." The deep breath stung his lungs and he coughed—a sharp, dry cough that rasped his throat. The man turned at the sound and eyed him sharply.