“It’s no good, Bel,” said Dallas one day; “I can’t go begging round again. It’s not fair to the men. I must go down to the town and bring back as much as I can.”
“Very well,” said Abel. “When do you start?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“So soon? Well, if it has to be done, the sooner the better.”
“I can get back within four or five days, I believe, and I’ll ask Tregelly to come in once or twice to see you, so that you will not be so lonely.”
“You need not do that, because I shall not be here,” said Abel quietly.
“Not be here?”
“Of course not. I shall be with you.”
“Impossible.”
“No, I shall manage to limp along somehow.”
“Impossible, I tell you!” cried Dallas. “You must stay to take care of the claim; and then there is the gold—and the dog.”
Abel was silenced; and the next morning, taking his empty sledge, and trusting to obtain enough food at the shanties which he would pass on the track, Dallas started.
Abel watched him pass away into the gloom of the dark morning, and then turned and limped back sadly to where the dog lay dozing by the fire, apparently still too weak to stir.
Abel’s bed had been drawn aside, and there was a hole in the ground, while upon the upturned barrel which formed their table stood a little leather bag half full of scales, scraps, and nuggets of gold—that which remained after Dallas had taken out a sufficiency to purchase stores at the town on the Yukon.
Abel’s first act was to stoop down, mend the fire, and pat the dog, which responded by rapping the earth with his tail. Then the leather bag was tied up, replaced in the bank hole, which was then filled up, the earth beaten down flat, and the sacks and skins which formed the bed drawn back into their places.
He stooped down and patted the dog.
“Pah! Why don’t you lie farther from the fire? You make the hut smell horribly with your burnt hair.”
The dog only whined, opened one eye, blinked at him, and went off to sleep again.
“Poor old chap!” mused Abel. “I didn’t think I could care so much for such a great, rough, ugly brute as you are; but adversity makes strange friends.”
Abel finished that day wondering how Dallas was getting on, and trying to picture his journey through the snow by the side of the ice-bound stream; grew more melancholy from his lonely position, and then tried to rouse himself by being practical and planning.
He made up his mind to content himself with one good, hearty meal a day, so as to make the provisions last out well, in case Dallas should not be back to time, and only to be extravagant with the fuel.
Lastly, he went to the door and looked out, to find that it was a clear, frosty night, with the brilliant stars peering down.
He knew it was night, for no fires were to be seen in any direction, and, after making all as snug as he could, he rolled himself in his blankets, drew the skin bag up about him, and followed his dumb companion’s example, sleeping till morning, when the logs were just smouldering and had to be coaxed into a good warm blaze again.
And so the days and nights glided by. He would awake again to find the fire burning low, the dog still sleeping, and the horror of another dreary day to pass. For his foot seemed no better, his spirits were lower than ever, and at last it was long past the time when Dallas should have returned.
How the days passed then he never afterwards could quite recall, for it was like a continuous nightmare. But in a mechanical way he kept up the fire, with the wood piled in one corner by the door getting so low that he knew he must bestir himself soon, and get to the stack by the shaft, knock and brush off the snow, and bring in more to thaw in the warmth of the hut.
All in a strange, dreamy way he sat and watched, cooked a large pot of skilly, and shared it with the still drowsy dog, which took its portion and curled-up again, after whining softly and licking his hand.
One night all seemed over. No one had been near, and he had felt too weak and weary to limp to the nearest hut in search of human companionship. He was alone in his misery and despair. Dallas must be dead, he felt sure, and there was nothing for him to do now but make another good meal for himself and the dog, and then sleep.
“Sleep,” he said aloud, “and perhaps wake no more.”
He ate his hot meal once more and watched the dog take his portion before going to the door, to look out feebly and find all black, depressing darkness; not even a star to be seen.
“Night, night, black night!” he muttered as he carefully fastened up again, pegged the blankets across to keep out the cruel wind, carefully piled up the pieces of wood about the fire, as an afterthought carried out with a smile, with a big log that would smoulder far on into the next day for the sake of the dog.
“For I shall not want it,” he said sadly. “Poor brute! What will he do when I’m dead?”
The thought startled him, and he sat down and fixed his eyes upon the shaggy, hairy animal curled-up close to the fire, whose flames flickered and danced and played about, making the hair glisten and throwing the dog’s shadow back in a curious grotesque way.
Something like energy ran in a thrill through the watcher, and he shuddered and felt that he must do something to prevent that—it would be too horrible.
It was in a nightmare-like state he seemed to see people coming to the door at last. He could even hear them knocking and shouting, and at last using hatchets to crash a way in. For what? To find the dog there alive and stronger, ready to resent their coming, even to fighting and driving them away; but only to return, rifle or pistol armed, to destroy the brute for what it had done according to its nature, to keep itself alive.
And then, it seemed to Abel, in his waking dream, they shudderingly gathered together what they saw to cast into the ready-dug grave—the shaft in which he and Dallas had so laboriously but hopefully delved, in search of the magnet which had drawn them there—the gold.
He made a wild effort to drive away the horrible fancy, and at last with a weary sigh sank upon his bed, his last thought being:
“Would those at home ever know the whole truth?”
“How long have I been awake?”
It must have been one long stupor of many, many hours, for the fire was very low, shedding merely a soft warm glow through the place.
He was stupefied, and felt unable to move, but the fancy upon which he had fallen asleep was there still in a strange confused way, and he felt that the dog was not in the spot where he had left it.
He lay with his eyes half-closed, conscious now of some sound which had awakened him. For there beyond the glowing embers, where all was made indistinct and strange, the dog was hard at work tearing a way out of the hut. The wood snapped and grated as it was torn away; then there was silence, and he was half disposed as he lay there helpless to think it was all a dream.
But as this fancy came the noise began once more, and at last he caught sight of the great dog, strong and sturdy now, crawling through a hole it had made into the hut—what for he could not make out in his feverish state. Why should it have done this to get at him when already there?
He knew it was all wrong, and that his brain was touched; but one thing was plain reality: There was the great beast, magnified by the light of the fire, creeping forward while he lay paralysed and unable to stir.
And yet it was strange, for just then the embers fell together, a soft, lambent, bluish flame flickered up, making the interior of the hut light, and he saw that the dog still lay in its old place, fast asleep. What was it then—bear, wolf—which had torn a way through or half under the wall of the place?
A bear, for it suddenly raised itself up on its hind-legs, and as he lay stupefied with horror, Abel could make out its shaggy hide.
Still, he could not move to reach for the rifle which stood ready loaded in the corner close by, but lay half paralysed in the strange dazed state into which he had fallen, till the object which reared up, looking huge, moved a little, and seemed listening.
Just then there was a bright gleam.
Eyes—teeth? Impossible, for it was low down, and Abel shook off his lethargy and uttered a low, hoarse cry, as he made an effort to spring up and reach a weapon.
But he was tight in the skin-lined sleeping-bag, and this fettered him so that he fell back, and the next moment his nocturnal visitant sprang forward, coming down heavily upon him, at the same moment making a deadly blow at him.
The strange feeling of helplessness was gone. Something to call forth the young man’s flagging energies had been needed, and it had come. He had lain down as one who had given up all hope, who had lost all that bound him to life; but that was but the dream of weakness, the stagnation of his nature, brought on by suffering, loneliness, and despair.
Face to face now with this danger, confronted by a cowardly ruffian, Nature made her call, and it was answered. The strong desire for life returned, and with another hoarse cry he flung himself aside, and thus avoided the blow aimed at him.
The next moment he had thrown himself upon his assailant. In an instant his hands were upon his throat. And now a terrible struggle ensued, in which a strange sense of strength came back to Abel; and he kept his hold, as, failing to extricate himself, his assailant retaliated by seizing him in the same way, and kept on raising and beating the fettered man’s head against the floor.
For in their struggle they had writhed and twisted till they were approaching the fire; and as they strove on in their fight for the mastery, Abel was conscious of hearing a loud yelp. Then his breath grew shorter, there was a horrible sensation of the blood rushing to his eyes, as he gasped for breath—a terrible swimming of the brain—lights bright as flashes of lightning danced before his eyes, and then with his senses reeling he was conscious of a tremendous weight, and then all was black—all was silent as the grave.
“Two days late,” said Dallas, as he paused for a few moments to rest and gain his breath, before shooting into collar again, when the trace tightened, the sledge creaked and ground over the blocks of ice, and glided over the obstruction which had checked him for the moment, and the runners of the heavily loaded frame rushed down the slope, nearly knocking him off his feet. The young man growled savagely, for the blow was a hard one.
“If you could only keep on like that I’d give you an open course,” he said; “but you will not. Never mind; every foot’s a foot gained. Wonder how old Abel is getting on?”
He shot into the collar once more, the trace tightened, and he went on for another hundred yards over the ice and snow.
The young man’s collar was a band of leather, his trace a rope, but no horse ever worked harder or perspired more freely than he, who was self-harnessed to the loaded sledge.
“I don’t mind,” he had said over and over again. “I’d have brought twice as much if I could have moved it. As it is, there’s enough to pay off one’s debts and to keep up, with economy, till the thaw comes; and now we are not going to be so pressed I daresay I shall manage to shoot a moose.”
That journey back from the settlement had been a terrible one, for he had loaded himself far more heavily than was wise, and this had necessitated his sleeping two nights in the snow instead of one. But snow can be warm as well as cold, and he found that a deep furrow with the bright crystals well banked up to keep off the wind, blankets, and a sleeping-bag, made no bad lair for a tired man who was not hungry. He took care of that, for, as he said to himself, “If it is only a donkey who draws he must be well fed.”
With his sledge at his head, tilted on one side to make a sort of canopy, and a couple of blankets stretched over, tent fashion, upon some stout sticks close down to his face, the air was soon warmed by his breath, and thanks to the skin-lined bag he slept soundly each night, and by means of a little pot and a spirit-lamp contrived to obtain a cup of hot tea before starting on his journey in the morning. But it was the lamp of life, heated by the brave spirit within him, that helped him on with his load, so that after being disappointed in not covering the last eight miles over-night, he dragged the sledge up towards their hut just at dawn of the day which succeeded the attack made upon his companion.
By dawn must be understood about ten o’clock, and as he drew near, Dallas could see a fire blazing here, and another there, at different shafts; but there was no sign of glow or smoke from the fire in their own hut; and in the joy that was within him at the successful termination of his expedition, Dallas laughed.
“The lazy beggar!” he said. “Not stirring yet, and no fire. Why, I must have been tugging at this precious load over four hours. He ought to have been up and had a good fire, and the billy boiling. He’s taking it out in sleep and no mistake. Wonder whether the dog’s dead? Poor brute! I don’t suppose he can have held out till now.”
As he drew near he gave vent to a signal whistle familiar to his cousin. But there was no reply, and he tugged away till he was nearer, and then gave vent to a cheery “Ahoy!”
There was still no response, and he hailed again, without result.
“Well, he is sleeping,” said Dallas, and he hailed again as he dragged away at the load. “At last!” he cried, as he reached the door and cast off the leathern loop from across his breast. “Here, Bel, ahoy! ahoy! ahoy! Hot rolls and coffee! Breakfast, bacon, and tinned tongue! Banquets and tuck out! Wake up, you lazy beggar! you dog! you—”
He was going to say “bear,” but a horrible chill of dread attacked him, and he turned faint and staggered back, nearly falling over his loaded sledge.
“Bah! coward! fool!” he cried angrily, and he looked sharply round, to see shaft fires in the distance; but there was no hut within half a mile. “What nonsense!” he muttered. “There can’t be anything wrong. Got short of food, and gone to one of the neighbours.”
Nerving himself, he tried to open the door.
But it was fast, and, as he could see from a means contrived by themselves for fastening the door from outside when they went away hunting or shooting, it had not been secured by one who had left the place.
In an instant, realising this, he grew frantic, and without stopping to think more, he ran round to the side by the shaft, caught up a piece of fir-trunk some six or seven feet long, and ran back, poised it for a few moments over his head, and then dashed it, battering-ram fashion, with all his might against the rough fir-wood door, just where the bar went across, loosening it so that he was able to insert one end of the piece of timber, using it now as a lever; and with one wrench he forced the door right open.
Dropping the piece of wood, he dashed into the dark hut, to find that the rush of wind from the suddenly opened door had started the embers in the middle of the floor flickering in a dim lambent flame, just enough to show him that the barrel table had been knocked over, the boxes used for seats driven here and there, the bed occupied by his cousin dragged away, the boards lifted, and the earth underneath it torn up, while Abel was lying face downward close up to the remains of their store of wood.
It was all in one comprehensive glance that he had seen this, and it seemed still to be passing panorama-like across the retina of his eyes, when the faint flame died out and he dropped upon his knees beside the prostrate man.
“Oh, Bel, lad,” he groaned; “what have I done? I oughtn’t to have left you. Bel, old man, speak to me. God help me! He can’t be dead!”
His hands were at his cousin’s breast to tear open the clothes, and feel if the heart was beating, but for the moment he shrank back in horror, half paralysed with the dread of learning the truth.
It was but momentary, and then he mastered the coward feeling, uttering a gasp of relief, for there was a faint throbbing against the hand he thrust into the poor fellow’s breast.
“Alive! I am in time,” he muttered, and he continued his examination in the dark, expecting to feel blood or some trace of a wound.
But, as far as he could make out, there was nothing of the kind, though he felt that his cousin must have been attacked; so, after laying the sufferer in a more comfortable position, he felt for the matches on the rough shelf, struck one, saw that the lamp stood there unused, and the next minute he had a light and went down upon one knee to continue his examination.
At the first glance he saw that Bel’s throat was discoloured, and there were ample signs of his having been engaged in some terrible struggle, but that was all. No, not all; the poor fellow was like ice, and quite insensible.
Dallas’s brain was in a whirl, but he was able to act sensibly under the circumstances. He caught up rugs and blankets, and covered the sufferer warmly. Then, going to the open door, he dragged in the sledge, and closed and secured the entrance after a fashion.
His next effort was to get a good fire blazing to alter the temperature of the hut; and when this was done he went to the spirit-flask kept on the shelf for emergencies, and trickled a few drops between the poor fellow’s lips.
As he worked at this he tried hard to puzzle out what had happened.
His first thoughts had been in the direction of attack and robbery. But there was the fastened door. It was not likely that Abel, after being half strangled and hurled down, could have fastened up the door again from the inside; he would sooner have left it open in the hope of one of their neighbours passing by and rendering help. And yet there was the bed dragged away, the board removed, and the earth torn up.
He crossed to the place.
There was no doubt about it; the object of the attack must have been robbery, for the bag of gold was gone.
He held his hand to his brow and stared about wildly.
Ah! A fresh thought. The dog! Hungry! Mad! It must have attacked and seized Abel by the throat. That would account for its lacerated state and the terrible struggle.
There was evidence, too, just across the hut—a hole had been half dug, half torn through the side, just big enough for such a dog to get through, and it had, after nearly killing him who had saved the brute’s life, torn a way out, partly beneath the side.
“Oh, Bel, lad, if you could only speak!” groaned Dallas, as he took up the lamp, felt how cold the poor fellow was, and, setting the lamp down again, stooped to pick up a skin rug tossed into the corner by the head of the bed.
But as he drew it towards him something dropped on the ground. Stooping down to see what it was, he discovered that it was a sharp, thick bowie-knife.
“It is robbery. He has been attacked,” cried Dallas; and once more he devoted himself to trying to restore the sufferer—chafing his cold limbs, bathing his temples with spirits, drawing him nearer the fire, and at last waiting in despair for the result, while feeling perfectly unable to fit the pieces of the puzzle so as to get a solution satisfactory in all points.
“Poor old Bel!” he said to himself; “he seems always to get the worst of it; but when I told him so he only laughed, and said it was I.”
He was in agony as to what he should do.
One moment he was for going to fetch help; the next he gave it up, dreading to leave his cousin again.
By degrees, though, the poor fellow began to come to as the warmth pervaded him; and at last, to Dallas’s great delight, he opened his eyes, stared at him wildly, and then looked round wonderingly till his eyes lit upon the opening, over which his cousin had pegged a rug.
He started violently then, and the memory of all that had taken place came back.
Clapping his hand to his throat, he wrenched his head round so that he could look in the direction of the bed.
“The gold—the bag of gold!” he whispered.
“Gone, old fellow; but never mind that, so long as you are alive. Try and drink this.”
“No, not now,” said Abel feebly. “I want to lie still and think. Yes, I remember now; he broke in at the side there while I was asleep. He had a knife, but I seized him. Did you come back then?”
“No, I have not long been home. Shall I go and ask Norton to come?”
“No, don’t leave me, Dal; I am so weak. But where is the dog?”
“He was not here when I broke in.”
“You broke in?”
“Yes; I could not make you hear. I say, though, had I not better fetch help?”
“What for? There is no doctor; and he might come back.”
Dallas had started, for as Abel spoke there was a loud thumping at the door. His hand went behind to his revolver, which he held ready, fully expecting from his cousin’s manner that the marauder who had attacked him had returned; but to the delight of both, after a second blow on the door, the familiar voice of Tregelly was heard in a cheery hail.
“Hullo, there!” he cried. “Any one at home?”
Dallas darted to the door, threw it open, and there in the gloomy light of mid-day stood their friend with a load over his shoulder.
“Back again, then? I was coming to see. But I say, what’s the meaning of this—is it a trap?”
“Is what a trap?” said Dallas.
“Putting this bag out yonder with the dog to watch it and snap at any one who touches it. Is the bag yours?”
“Yes, of course,” exclaimed Dallas excitedly; “but where was it?”
“Outside, I tell you; but it’s a failure if it’s a trap, for the dog’s dead.”
Dallas rushed out, followed by his visitor, and there in the dim light lay the dog, stretched out upon the snow, perfectly stiff and motionless.
“I see how it was now,” cried Dallas excitedly; and as their neighbour helped him carry the dog in, he told him in a few words of how he had found matters on his return.
“Poor brute! Was he in the place, then?”
“I suppose so, and he must have attacked the scoundrel, and made him drop the bag.”
“And then lay down to watch it, dying at his post. If he had lived I’d have given something for that dog.”
“Indeed you would not,” said Dallas warmly. “No gold would have bought him.”
The dog was laid down by the fire, but Tregelly shook his head.
“Might as well save his skin, youngsters; but you’ll have to thaw him first.”
“Is he dead?” asked Abel feebly.
“No doubt about that,” replied Tregelly. “It’s a pity, too, for he was a good dog. Those Eskimo, as a rule, are horrid brutes, eating up everything, even to their harness; but this one was something. I’d come up to bring Mr Wray here half one o’ my hams, but you won’t want it now.”
“No,” said Dallas; “and I can send you back loaded, and be out of debt.”
“Well, I can’t say what I lent you won’t be welcome. My word, though, you brought a good load.”
“Set to and play cook,” said Dallas, “while I tidy up. I’m sure you could eat some breakfast, and I’m starving.”
“So am I,” cried their visitor, laughing. “Beginning to feel better, master?” he added, turning to Abel.
“Yes; only I’m so stiff, and my throat is so painful.”
“Cheer up, my lad; that’ll soon get better. I only wish, though, I had come last night when that fellow was here. I don’t believe my conscience would ever have said anything if I had put a bullet through him.”
Abel lay silent near the fire, watching the dog thoughtfully while stores were unpacked and preparations made for a meal; but at last he spoke.
“Dal,” he said, “give me that knife that you found.”
“What for? You had better lie still, and don’t worry about anything now except trying to get well.”
“Give me the knife. I’ve been thinking. That man who attacked me last night was one of that gang.”
“What!” cried Tregelly, stopping in his task of frying bacon. “Nonsense! they daren’t show their noses here now.”
“I feel sure of it,” said Abel excitedly. “Let me look at that knife. I believe it’s the one that was stolen from the man on the lake.”
Dallas looked at him doubtingly, before picking up the knife and shaking his head. “It might be, or it might not,” he said dubiously, as he passed it to his cousin.
“Well, at any rate, Dal, they have tracked us down, and that accounts for the attack.”
“It looks like it,” said Dallas; “but don’t get excited, old fellow. I don’t want you to turn worse.”
“But they must be somewhere close at hand, Dal,” cried Abel; “and we may be attacked again at any moment.”
“All right, then, we’ll be ready for them,” said Dallas soothingly. “Forewarned is forearmed.”
“You are saying that just to calm me,” said Abel bitterly. “You do not believe me, but it is a fact. I felt something of the kind last night in those horrible moments when he held my throat in that peculiar way. It was out of revenge for the past. They have dogged us all the time, and been close at our heels. Ah, look out!” he cried wildly, as he tried to spring up—“Listen! I can hear them outside plainly.”
“Nay, nay, lad,” said Tregelly soothingly; “there’s no one here now. That bag of gold was enough to bring one of the rowdies down upon you, but those three chaps wouldn’t risk a meeting with the judge again.”
“I don’t know,” said Dallas thoughtfully; “there is plenty of room hereabout for them to be in, hiding; and they must have gone somewhere.”
“Not much chance for a man to keep himself alive in this country, without tackle and stores, or a shanty of his own.”
“Unless he has attacked and murdered some one,” said Abel bitterly. “But you will see.”
The poor fellow was so exhausted by what he had gone through that, after painfully swallowing some of the tea that had been prepared, he dropped into a stupor-like sleep, whilst Dallas watched him anxiously.
“That was fancy of his, my lad,” said Tregelly, who was making a hearty breakfast. “Come, you don’t eat.”
“How can I, with the poor fellow like this?” cried Dallas. “He seems to come in for all the misfortune.”
“Yes, he is a bit unlucky,” replied Tregelly; “but you must eat if you want to help him. Look here, I don’t want to be unfeeling; but your mate isn’t dying of fever.”
“No, no; but look at him.”
“Yes, I have, and he has been a good deal knocked about, besides having a frozen foot; but that will all get well. You are set up with provisions again; you’ve got your gold back, and a good claim of your own.”
“Just good enough to keep us alive.”
“Well, it isn’t very lively work, my lad,” said Tregelly; “but we must make the best of it. We shall have the summer again soon, and do better, perhaps.”
“I hope so,” said Dallas bitterly, “for we could never get through another winter like this.”
“You don’t know till you try. And you take my advice: let your brother—”
“My cousin.”
“Well, it’s all the same out here. Let him sleep all he can, and when he’s awake feed him up and keep him warm.”
“I can’t get rid of the feeling that I ought to go back to Yukon Town and try to get a doctor.”
“Nonsense, my son; he wants no doctor. And now look here; if I say something to you, will you believe that it’s meant honest?”
“Of course. What do you mean?”
“Only this, my son; that I don’t want you to think that I want to come and sponge upon you because you’ve got plenty of prog.”
“Mr Tregelly!”
“Let me finish, my lad,” said the big Cornishman. “I was going to say, what do you think of me coming and pigging here with you for a bit, in case what the youngster here says might be right; and if it is, you and me could polish off that gang pretty well, better than you could alone, or I could alone. Not that I’m skeered; but if young Wray here is right they’ll be down upon me too. But I don’t want you to think—”
“But what about your gold?” said Dallas eagerly.
“If any one should go there, and can find it, I’ll give it him.”
“Is it so well hidden?”
“Yes; I’ve got it froze into the middle of a block of ice. They’ll never look there.”
“Will you come?” said Dallas excitedly.
“I’ll do better than that,” said the Cornishman: “I’ll stop now.”
“You will?”
“Of course; and glad of the chance to help you. Yah!”
The big fellow jumped up in horror, as a loud rap came from close by.
“What was that?” cried Dallas, who was equally startled.
“It was that there dog’s ghost got his tail thawed enough to give it a rap on the floor to say, ‘That’s right’; and I believe your cousin’s right too, now, and this is a message sent to us to say, ‘Look out, for those three beauties are coming here again.’”
“Nonsense!” cried Dallas, going down on his knees; “the dog’s alive.”
“I’m blessed!” said his big friend. “Well, some things can stand being froze hard and thawed out again better than we Christians. I s’pose it’s having such a thick coat. Look at him; he’s got one eye open, and he’s winking.”
In proof thereof came a low whine, as if in appeal for food.
“Look here, my sons,” said Tregelly one day, as he came in last from the dismal darkness without to the bright warmth of the hut, where the fire was burning cheerily and an appetising odour of tea, damper, and fried ham proclaimed how busy, weak as he still was, Abel had been; “I used to grumble a deal down in old Cornwall because we had a lot o’ wet days, and say it was a country not fit for anything better than a duck to live in; but I’m an altered man now, and I repent. It’s a regular heaven compared to this Klondike country. Hullo, Scruff, my son, how are you?” The dog gave an amiable growl, and seemed to enjoy the gentle caress the big miner gave him with his heavy boot, as he lay stretched out by the fire.
“Don’t grumble, Bob,” said Dallas. “This looks cheery enough, and we’ve done some good to-day.”
“Oh, I’m not grumbling, my son; only making comparisons as is ojus. That’s what I used to write at school. This is a reg’lar Lord Mayor’s banquet for a hungry man. But my word, how dirty I am!”
“So am I,” said Dallas. “What with the gravel and the wood-smoke, I feel like a charcoal burner. I should like a wash, though.”
“Wash, my son! I should like a bathe in our old Cornish sea, with the sun shining on my back. And I say, a bit of our old fish. A few pilchards or grilled mackerel, or a baked hake, with a pudding inside him—or oh! a conger pie.”
“Don’t, Bob,” said Dallas. “This is painful. And look here; either you or I must go down to Yukon City with the sledge again, for the stores are getting low.”
“Nay,” said the big Cornishman; “we’ll have up what I’ve got down yonder first. Clear out the place. There’s enough there to last us a fortnight longer; and I want to go there badly.”
“Very well,” said Dallas; “then we’ll go. Feel well enough to come as far as there to-morrow, Bel?”
“Yes; and I should like it,” was the reply.
“Then we’ll go. We’ll shut up the dog here to keep house till we come back, though no one is likely to come. I say, how much longer it has been light to-day.”
“Pretty sort of light!” growled Tregelly. “I could make better light out of a London fog and some wet flannel. We got a fine lot of gravel and washing stuff, though, out of the shaft to-day. Look here, I picked out this.”
He held out a tiny nugget of gold, about as big as a small pea; and it was duly examined, put in a small canister upon the shelf, and then the evening meal went on, and Tregelly refreshed himself with large draughts of tea.
“Look here,” he said: “we agreed that we’d tell one another if we found a good place, and we started working separate.”
“Yes,” said Bel, “and fate has ordered that we should come together again. We—bah! what mockery it seems to talk of ‘we’ when I’m such a helpless log.”
“Look here, Bel, I wish you were a bit stronger, and I’d kick you.”
“Don’t wait, my son; kick him now,” cried Tregelly. “He deserves it.”
“I’ll save it up,” said Dallas. “But look here, Big Bob, you needn’t make a long speech. You were going to say that you thought now that we had better stick together, share and share alike for the future.”
“Well, I dunno how you knew that,” said Tregelly; “but it was something of the kind.”
“That’s right, then we will; eh, Bel?”
“Of course; if Tregelly will consent to share with such a weak, helpless—”
“Here,” cried the big Cornishman, springing up, “shall I kick him?”
“No, no; let him off.”
“But he do deserve it,” said Tregelly, subsiding. “Now, I was going to say it don’t seem quite fair for me to stop, as those precious three—if there is three of ’em left unhung—not having shown up, there don’t seem any need.”
“More need than ever,” said Dallas. “Your being here scares them away.”
“Hope it do,” said Tregelly. “Then look here, we’ll go down to my pit to-morrow, and bring up the sledge load, including my bit of ice, for it can’t be so very long now before it’ll begin to thaw a bit every day, and I don’t want my block to melt and let out the gold. There’s more there than you’d think.”
“But that’s yours,” said Abel.
“Nay, nay, my son; we’ll put it all together. You’ve got some, and there’s a lot yonder outside when the soft weather comes and we can wash it out; so that’s settled. Wonder whether working in that hot damp shaft’ll give us rheumatiz by-and-by.”
“I hope not, Bob,” said Dallas, yawning. “I’ve often thought of something of the kind. One thing is certain, that if we don’t find much more gold than we have got so far we shall have earned our fortunes.”
“Fortunes!” cried Abel contemptuously; “why, at the rate we have been going on, if we get enough to pay for our journey home, as well as for our provisions, that will be about all.”
“And except for the pleasant trip, my sons, we might as well have stopped at home.”
Dallas stared the next morning when he opened his eyes, for the fire was burning brightly and Abel was bustling about in the lit-up hut, with nothing but a slight limp to tell of the old frost-bite in his foot.
“Come,” he said cheerfully; “breakfast is nearly ready.”
“Where’s Bob Tregelly?” cried Dallas.
“Scraping the ice off the sledge to make it run easily. It’s a glorious morning.”
“Night,” said Dallas sourly, for he was half asleep. “I’m not going to call it morning till there’s daylight. Snowing?”
“No. Keen frost, and the stars are brilliant.”
“Bother the stars!” grumbled Dallas, rolling out of his warm couch of blankets and skins. “I want the sun to come back and take the raw edge off all this chilly place. But I say, you have given up going with us to-day—to-night, I mean?”
“Given up? No. I feel that it is time I made an effort, and I shall be better and stronger if I do.”
“But you can’t wear your boots, you know, and it will not be safe for you to trust to a bandaged sandal.”
“Can’t wear my boots?” said Abel. “Well, at any rate, I’ve got them on.”
“But they must hurt you horribly.”
“Not in the least,” said Abel, and his cousin was silent while he completed his exceedingly simple toilet—one that he would not have thought possible in the old days.
By the time he had finished, the door opened, and Tregelly stooped to pass under the lintel.
“Morning, my son,” he cried; “I’ve been greasing the runners of the sledge a bit, and rubbing up the chest-strap. The thing wants using. I’ve oiled the guns and six-shooters too. Beautiful morning. I say, how that dog has come round!”
For the great shaggy brute had walked to the door to meet him, with his bushy tail well curled-up, and a keen look of returning vigour in his eyes and movements.
“Yes,” said Dallas; “I never thought he’d live. But I say, Bel persists in going with us, and I’m sure he’ll break down.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter, my son. If he does we’ll make him sit astride of the load as we come back, and each take a rope, and give him a ride home.”
“I shall be able to walk,” said Abel stoutly.
“Very well,” said Dallas. “You always were the most obstinate animal that ever breathed.”
The breakfast was eaten, pistols and cartridges placed in their belts, rifles taken down from their hooks, and the fire banked up with big logs that would last to their return; and then Dallas took up one of the skin-lined sleeping-bags.
“What’s that for?” said Abel suspiciously.
“For you to ride back in.”
Abel made an angry gesture. “I tell you I’m better,” he said sharply.
“Well, never mind if you are, my son,” said Tregelly quietly. “You must get tired, and if you are you’ll be none the worse for a ride, but a good deal so if you get your toes frosted again.”
“Very well, make a child of me,” said Abel, and he gave way. “Have we got all we want?”
“Better take something for a bit of lunch before we start back,” suggested Dallas.
“Nay–y–ay!” cried the Cornishman, “there’s plenty yonder, and we may as well carry some of it back inside as out.”
“Come on, then,” said Dallas, and he strode to the door, when, to the surprise of all, the dog uttered a deep bark and sprang before them.
“Oh, come, that won’t do,” cried Dallas. “You’ve got to stop and mind the house.”
The dog barked fiercely, and rose at the door upon its hind-legs.
“Yes, he had better stay,” said Abel; “we mustn’t leave the place unprotected. Let’s slip out one by one.”
“I don’t know,” said Tregelly thoughtfully; “he has evidently made up his mind to go with us, and if we shut him in alone he’ll be wild and get springing about, and perhaps knock the fire all over the place. Don’t want to come back and find the shanty burned up.”
This remark settled the matter, and they started out into the keen dark morning, the dog, after bounding about a little and indulging in a roll in the snow, placing himself by the trace as if drawing, and walking in front of the empty sledge which Tregelly was dragging.
“Might as well have let you pull too,” said the latter; “but never mind—you may rest this time.”
No fires were burning yet, as they trudged on over the frozen snow, while the stars glittered brilliantly as if it were midnight, giving quite enough light for them to make their way over the four miles which divided them from Tregelly’s claim.
“Getting pretty close now,” he said, breaking the silence; for the rugged state of the slippery snow had resulted in the latter part of the journey being made in silence, only broken by the crunching of the icy particles and the squeaking sound made from time to time by the sledge runners as they glided over the hard surface.
Suddenly Tregelly stopped short, and as they were in single file, the rest halted too.
“What’s the matter?” said Dallas.
“Why, some one’s took up a claim and made a shanty close up to mine. No, by thunder! They’ve got in my place and lit a fire! Oh, I’m not going to stand that!”
“What impudence!” said Dallas.
“Impudence! I call it real cheek! But come on; I’ll soon have them out of that!”
“Hist!” whispered Abel; “let’s go up carefully and see first. It may be some one we know.”
“Whether we know them or whether we don’t,” said Tregelly angrily, “they’re coming out, and at once. Do you hear? There’s more than one of them. Come along.”
But before he had taken a dozen of his huge strides towards the hut, from whose rough chimney the ruddy smoke and sparks were rising, there was a wild hoarse cry as of some one in agony, and the sound of a struggle going on, while fierce oaths arose, and a voice, horrible in its weird, strange tones, shrieked out so that the words reached their ears:
“The dog—the dog! Keep him from me, or he’ll tear my heart right out!” while at the same moment Scruff barking fiercely, bounded forward towards the door, just as a cry of horror arose, so awful that it seemed to freeze the marrow in the young men’s bones.
“Come on,” shouted Tregelly; “they’re killing some one.”
The two young men needed no inciting. Following Tregelly closely, they ran towards the door, which was flung open as their leader reached it, and Tregelly was dashed back against them with such violence that he would have fallen but for their support.
At the same moment, after they had caught, by the light of the fire within, a glimpse of two rough-looking men, one of them apparently as big as their companion, the door swung to again and all was darkness, while added to the still continuing cries, yells, and appeals to keep back the dog, there came from the other direction the crunching of heavy boots in full retreat on the snow, the savage barking of the dog, and then flash after flash, followed by reports, as the late occupants of the hut evidently turned to fire at the pursuing dog.
The first idea of the trio was to rush after the men who had come in contact with them, but second thoughts suggested the impossibility of overtaking them in the darkness, while the appealing cries from within the cottage drew them in the other direction.
“Leave them to the dog,” shouted Dallas excitedly.
“Yes, come on and see who’s this one inside,” growled Tregelly, as he thrust open the door and stepped into his hut.
The place was well illumined by the blazing wood fire, and they looked round in wonder for the assailant or dog which had elicited the hoarse wild appeals for help and protection which rose from the solitary occupant of the place—a wild, bloodshot-eyed, athletic man in torn and ragged half-open shirt and trousers, who cowered on the rough bed trying to force himself closer into the corner, his crooked fingers scratching at the wall, while all the time his head was wrenched round so that he stared wildly at imaginary dangers, evidently vividly seen, and kept on shrieking for help.
The little party paused and glanced excitedly round, their weapons ready to fire at the companions whom the man was addressing.
“Keep him off, mate—drag him back, Beardy! Can’t you see he’s tearing me to bits! Shoot! shoot! why don’t you shoot? Never mind hitting me. Shoot!—can’t you see the dog’s mad?”
There was a moment or two’s pause, during which the man was silent, panting and foaming at the mouth, as he glared wildly towards the door. Then he began again.
“There, there—you’ve missed him!” he shrieked. “He’s at me again. He’s mad—mad, I tell you! Shoot—shoot!—ah!”
The poor wretch darted out one hand, caught up something from between the bed and the wall, and the firelight glistened upon the side of a bottle, which he raised so violently to his lips that the neck rattled against his teeth; and the lookers-on heard the deep glug—glug—glug of the liquid within, as the man drank with avidity.
“Ah!” he yelled again, and, raising himself up, he threw the bottle with all his might across the hut, so that it struck the wooden wall heavily, and fell to the floor unbroken.
“Missed—missed!” shrieked the man; “and he’s springing at me again! Keep him back—keep him back! Ah!”
The shriek he uttered was horrible, as he went through all the movements of one struggling wildly against the attacks of a savage beast, and then suddenly dropped down cowering into the corner, panting loudly.
Meanwhile Tregelly had picked up the bottle and held it to his nostrils, before glancing at the side.
“That’s mine,” he growled. “They found that, then. I got it for spirits, case I was took ill in the night; but it was so bad I never used none, and put it on the corner of the shelf. It’s poison, that’s what it is; much like paraffin as can be. Nice stuff for a man like that!”
“The man’s mad,” said Dallas, with a shudder.
“Yes,” whispered Abel; “don’t you see, Dal? It’s one of three who attacked us up in the pass.”
“Yes; there’s no doubt about that,” said Dallas.
“He’s the man who attacked me the other night. I’m sure as can be.”
“Oh, that’s him, is it?” said Tregelly with a deep, angry growl. “Well, it’ll be a long time before he attacks you again, my son.”
“Is it fever?” said Dallas.
“’M! no, my son; I’ve seen a man took like that before. I should say it’s hydrophoby, from the bite of a dog; and he’s been doctoring himself with that paraffin stuff till he’s madder than ever.”
The sight before them had so taken up their attention that for the moment Scruff’s pursuit of the other two had been forgotten; but now it was brought vividly back to mind by a dull thump at the door, and the scratching of claws, and as the door yielded, the great dog forced its way in, with his red tongue lolling out, and panting loudly with his exertions.
The effect was magical. The man upon the couch could not have seen or heard the dog, but he seemed to divine the great animal’s presence, and springing up again from where he cowered, he began to shriek again horribly.
“The dog—the dog!” he yelled—“tearing me to pieces! Mad—mad! Shoot—shoot, I say!”
But attention was taken from him to the action of the dog.
As soon as the ghastly, distorted face in the corner rose, and the shrieks began to fill the hut, the dog paused by the door, with the thick hair about his neck bristling up till the animal looked double his former size, and a low, muttering, thunderous growl came from his grinning jaws.
The next moment he would have sprung at the wretched man, but Dallas grasped the position and was too quick for him. In an instant he had sprung across the dog’s back, nipped him between his knees, and buried his hands in the thick hair of his neck.
“Quick, Bel, or he will tear him to pieces!” cried Dallas. “The door—the door! Here, Bob, help; I can’t hold him. Strong as a horse.”
Abel flew to drag open the door, Tregelly seized the dog by his tail; there was a furious scratching and barking, a rush out, a swing round of two powerful arms, and the door was banged to again, and fastened; but only just in time, Scruff’s head coming at it with a loud thud, and his claws rattling and scratching on the wood, as he barked and growled savagely.
“Lie down, sir!” roared Dallas. “How dare you! Lie down.”
There was a loud barking at this, but there were sounds as if of protest mingled with it, and finally the dog subsided into a howl, and dropped down by the door to wait, a low, shuffling, panting sound coming through the crack at the bottom.
“He’d have killed him,” said Dallas, panting with the exertion.
“Not a doubt about it, my son,” replied Tregelly. “That’s the chap, sure enough—him as half killed you, Mr Abel.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“Knew him again directly.”
“Think so?” said Dallas.
“Sure of it, my son. Dog wouldn’t have gone for a sick man in bed. Knew him directly, and went for him. Depend upon it, them two had a desprit fight that night when Scruff laid hold of him and made him drop the gold-bag.”
“That’s it, Bel,” said Dallas. “No doubt Scruff bit him pretty well, and he has scared himself into the belief that the dog was mad.”
“Yes, that and delirim trimins,” said the big Cornishman, looking down at the horrible wreck before him, the face seeming more ghastly and grotesque from the dancing shadows. “The brute has drunk himself mad. He’s a thief, and a murderer, or meant to be; and him and his gang have broke into my house. If the judge and his lot yonder could get at him they’d hang him to the first tree; he told us if we saw him and his lot we were to shoot at sight; and he’s no good to himself or anybody else, and the world would be all the better without him; and—I say, don’t you think we’d better let the dog come in and put him out of his misery?”
“No,” said Dallas angrily; “neither do you.”
“Well, put him outside in the snow. It’s a merciful sort of death, and very purifying to such a chap as this. Soon freeze hard. He wouldn’t come back to life like old Scruff. What do you say to that, Master Abel Wray?”
“Nothing,” said Abel shortly, “because if I said Yes! you wouldn’t do it.”
Tregelly stood and shook with the ebullition of chuckles which came bubbling out.
“Oh, dear me,” he said at last, as he wiped his eyes. “I can’t help being such a fool. It’s my nature to, my sons. No, I couldn’t set the dog at the beast, and I couldn’t put him out to freeze; but if it had come to a fight, and I’d been up, I could have shot him or knocked him on the head, and felt all the better for it.”
“Yes, I know,” said Dallas, who stood gazing down at the trembling wretch upon the couch.
“I s’pose I ought to be very glad him and his lot found my place empty; and I ought to sit down and nurse him and try to make him well again, and stop till his mates came and made an end of me—same as they’ve made an end of everything in the place. I say, just look here—quiet, Scruff, or I’ll come and talk to you with one of my boots!—I’m blessed if they haven’t finished up everything I left here—ham, bacon, meal, tea, sugar—every blessed thing,” continued Tregelly, as he opened canister and tin, peered into the meal-tub, and finished by staring down at the miserable wretch on the bed, and thoughtfully scratching his head.
“It’s horrible, Bob,” said Dallas. “The brutes! But I don’t know what we’re to do.”
Tregelly looked down again at the man, whose lips were moving fast; but his words were inaudible, save now and then, when he uttered a strange yelping cry, and they heard the word, “Dog!”
“Seems your turn now, Master Abel,” said Tregelly. “You’ve got your knife into him most. But he’s got his deserts.”