Wilder drew a deep breath.
Usak had ceased paddling. There was a moment in which he remained utterly unmoving like those others. To the on-looker it seemed that he was contemplating the full horror in which his mistake had involved him. Then, of a sudden, he saw the dark figure rear itself up in the boat, which, even at that distance, seemed to rock perilously. The man stood erect. Then an arm was raised and the paddle was flung into the racing waters. After that it seemed that the doomed creature’s arms were folded across his broad bosom, and, like a statue, unmoved by any emotion of fear, he stood boldly contemplating the terrible doom towards which he and his victims were inevitably being borne.
Wilder turned away. It was all too painful. It was all too horrible in its human wantonness. He passed up the shore and sat down, pondering the irony of the fate that had descended upon the demented man out there on the water.
And after awhile, when the cold of the night drove him, and he bestirred himself, and again moved down to the water’s edge, it was to witness the placid unruffled bosom of the great river flowing heavily on as it had done throughout the ages. The trifling human tragedy it had witnessed was far too infinitely small to leave its impress upon a scene so tremendous in its expression of overwhelming Nature.
CHAPTER XVI
THE END OF THE LONG TRAIL
The transformation was complete. It was beyond anything that had been dreamed of by those who had foreseen the thing that would happen. It had come with that startling rapidity which the lure and magic of gold never fails to bring about.
Just before the break of spring saw the return to the Caribou of Chilcoot and Bill Wilder. But their return was very different from their adventurous going, when it had been a desperate race against the season. They came while the grip of the Arctic night was still fast upon the great waterways, and before the sun had lifted its shining face above the horizon. They came with a great equipment of men and material on heavily laden dog-sleds. They came with all speed that not a moment of the coming daylight might be lost, and to head off the rush of the human tide that was already strung out behind them for the new adventure.
Bill Wilder had not permitted the grievous tragedy he had witnessed on the upper waters of the Hekor to deflect his purpose one iota. The shock of the thing he had witnessed had been painful beyond words. For the blind leader of the Euralian marauders he had had not one grain of pity. For the great Indian, who had given his life to the loyal service of the girl he loved, there had been a regret that was not untinged with a sensation of relief. He felt somehow that the thing was right; he felt that had the demented creature achieved his purpose and himself escaped, the position would have been fraught with serious complications, not to say dangers. Usak would have expected to return to his service of Felice as though nothing had happened. He would have demanded the thing he looked upon as his right. And to hold his place at her side he would have been prepared to use any and all the methods his savage mind prompted.
Wilder’s duty would have been obvious. The man had committed his wanton crime. He was a serious danger to them all. Even, he felt, to the girl herself. There would have been nothing for him to do but hand the story of the crime to his friend, George Raymes. That would have deeply involved him. The Kid would have been hurt, hurt as he had no desire to hurt her, with the knowledge of the hideous crime, and that the full penalty of whiteman’s law had fallen upon the man who had been a second father and devoted servant to her. As it was she need never know the thing that had happened. No one need ever know the thing that had happened, except Raymes, and perhaps Chilcoot, who would, he knew, remain as silent as the grave.