Mr Bell sighed deeply as he agreed with me. I tried to cheer him. I urged him to endeavour to get better, to look at the brighter side of affairs, for his daughter's sake, at least. I said, of course, I would stand by and aid her all I possibly could, with my life if need be. I would do all a man could to conduct her safely home to her mother, if he were taken; but I urged him again and again to try to pull himself together, and for all our sakes not to give up hope.
He took all I said kindly; he clasped my hand in his, and promised to do his best, but whispered as we heard May stirring, "It's hopeless, Bertie Singleton—quite hopeless; but I'll try to hide the truth from May as long as possible."
When May rejoined us he rallied wonderfully, and in a few hours had improved so greatly that I said something more about leaving, and again May begged and prayed me to remain with them, in which her father joined with her eagerly.
Most certainly I did not wish to leave them, but I was troubled about the way to stay. I suggested that I should erect a tent, bank it round with snow, use the Yukon sheet-iron stove they had, and sleep in it. With plenty of pine brush, furs, and blankets, I should be all right. For in a tent, in the way I have described, one can keep warm with the thermometer many degrees below zero.
We were planning this when she said, "But why not use one of the places the men made? Come and see."
Wrapping up carefully and taking a firebrand, we two, and Patch, who was true to May, and would hardly allow her to move without his knowing all about it, tramped through the snow to a den excavated in the same fashion as Meade's and mine. It was absolutely dry inside—dismal enough certainly, but to me, used to such a dwelling, it offered a convenient lair.
May returned to her father. I built a huge fire in the proper corner, and soon had a warm burrow for a sleeping-place. It was close to the shanty. If May hammered on her door I should hear it, and be with her in a moment.
For a week Mr Bell continued to improve; May became quite cheerful. I did all I was able to aid them, kept up the fires, thawed snow for water, cooked, and made matters as pleasant as I could. We read and talked, and in many respects we had a happy time.
Plenty of food and firing and sweet companionship satisfied my ideas of rest then, and I was glad to notice that in spite of all the terrible surroundings May was looking well and strong. Mr Bell was able to sit up and talk cheerfully at times; but, notwithstanding, I noted no improvement in his appearance, and I feared greatly his daughter had much to suffer yet.
I did not anticipate immediate danger though, and as I was obliged to visit my dug-out down the creek for another load, I arranged to go, and to be absent for two days only.
Since the night when May had slept whilst I sat by her father, he and I had no private conversation; it was impossible, as she never left the hut. But often he looked at me so sadly, perhaps in the middle of lively talk with her, that I was very much troubled, dreading what was coming.
The day before I had arranged to start he was busy, just as poor Meade was, writing—letters apparently. They seemed to be deeply affecting him. He was paler than usual, and struck me as being still more withered and shrunken. He looked as if there was but a feeble spark of life in him, which a breath would extinguish. How dare I hope that he would ever gain strength enough to take the terrible journey out?
I knew May noticed this change in him: she begged him to rest, she hung round his couch, sadly troubled; and for the life of me I could not say anything to cheer her. She urged him to give up his writing, but all that he would answer was, "Soon, my love—directly."
He wrote only a little more after this, then folded the sheet, and with trembling hands placed it in an envelope and fastened it. Then he looked up at her and me.
His eyes were suffused with tears: I never saw so mournful a look upon a human face. It affected me deeply. What did May feel then? She glanced at me once only. I'll never forget that glance.
Clasping her father in her arms, she drew him frantically to her breast, crying, "Father, dear father, tell me what is troubling you?"
In a loud hoarse voice, speaking more powerfully than I had ever heard him, he said, "I was writing to your mother, May—bidding her farewell!"
"Farewell!—father. What do you mean?" she cried.
"My dear, I have written 'Good-bye' to her. I have finished; and—now—I must say—Good-bye to you—my darling. Yes—I'm going to leave you. It's all right. I have—known this—for a—long time. I'm going—to die here—May. I'll never—see dear England—again—nor your sweet mother. But I know—where my trust is, May. I know that—my Redeemer—liveth. Tell her—this, dear—we shall meet—in the beyond. And, May—my dearest—I leave you—in full faith—that you'll—get home. God will bless—your journey. Don't fear. I leave you—in His hands—and in those—of this good friend—Bertie Singleton's. He'll do his best—for you. Trust him. Don't grieve—too much—for me."
During this long, sad, and very solemn discourse, May had fixed a stony gaze upon him: her face was white as chalk, her eyes were staring wildly. She uttered no sound until he ceased to speak; then she gave a most piteous, woful cry, and sank insensible across the bed, his hand clasped in hers.
I stepped forward, anxious to render some aid—I knew not what. He looked down upon his daughter, then wistfully at me. "It is well, my friend," he whispered; "my time has come. My sands of life have run out. I must go!"
I put my hand out mechanically. He clasped it very tightly, with a nervous grip, and placed it on May's head, saying most gravely and yet so trustfully, "I leave her in God's hands—and yours. I know you will deal kindly with her, as I know my heavenly Father will. I can trust you. I do. Farewell, dear friend, farewell!"
As the last words fluttered from his lips he lay back, closed his eyes, and after he had heaved a few feeble sighs, at longer and longer intervals, I knew that he, too, was dead! At which I threw myself upon my knees beside his couch, utterly unnerved—despondent—desperate.
How long I thus remained silent and despairing I do not know. I was aroused by May addressing me.
"See," she whispered softly,—"see what has happened," and she pointed.
"I know, I know," was all that I could utter.
It was a profoundly miserable scene in that far-away shanty. The rough walls, the crevices between the logs stuffed with moss and mud; the earthen floor, worn into holes and inequalities; the huge fireplace, with its pile of smouldering logs; the dim light from the flickering slush-lamp; the blanket screen, drawn aside for the sake of air; the rough couch of leaves and rugs, on which her father was lying; and she, standing near, with her hands clasped, her face white as that upon which she gazed, with such a look of woe and despair on it, that it made me feel what no mere words can describe.
Thus we stood, Patch sitting by the fire, turning his head occasionally, with the same look he bore when poor Meade died.
We remained in this position until the pent-up feelings of my distressed companion vented themselves in a moan, so pitiful, so heart-breaking, that I could not control myself. I felt I must do something. I grasped her by the arm, and exclaiming "Come, come away," I drew her to the fire, and made her lie down upon a heap of blankets that happened to be there. Then, taking a stool beside her, I endeavoured to say something to calm her, and to show how deeply I sympathised with and felt for her.
She remained quite silent. She neither shed tears nor spoke, but lay there motionless, with staring eyes, with such an utterly lost look upon her face, that I began to fear she too would die.
This thought so startled me that I suddenly spoke sharply to her. I forget what I said, but it roused her from her lethargy. Startled by my exclamation, she regarded me with piercing earnestness, exclaiming, "What is to be done? What can be done?"
"Dear lady," I answered, speaking with deep feeling, "I cannot tell yet. We must decide on something. Can you live on here alone? I see by your face that you cannot. Can you undertake a journey through this terrible wilderness alone? Of course you cannot; so we must throw all false delicacy aside: you and I are here, miles on miles from any other human beings. I will do all I can for you, we must work together, so try to calm yourself and think what will be best."
She looked hard at me, and, I was thankful to see, trustfully; then she pointed towards the curtain which I had lowered. "What must be done with what is there?" she whispered, and she hid her face in her hands and wept.
I was grateful to see the tears fall, for I knew that to any one in deep grief tears are a great relief.
When she was calmer I talked gently with her. "We cannot bury him, the earth is frozen hard as steel. His poor body will be quite safe here; but could you live here with it?" I asked.
May remained silent for some time, sobbing convulsively. At length she mastered her emotion, and exclaimed, "No! no! let us go away; cannot we start now and make our way to Dawson? I am very strong, I am inured to cold and hardship—let us go; let us start away from this most terrible place; let us make our way to England, and my mother. Oh, my friend, my dear friend, help me to get home!"
Considering how little experience I had had until quite recently with mourning and distress, even amongst men, and that I had never had any with women, I think I acted wisely in encouraging May to discuss and become interested about this idea of getting away. I led her to talk, believing it was the best thing for her.
For an hour or two we discussed the subject in every aspect, until, indeed, I perceived it was very necessary for both of us to have food and sleep.
I was delighted to see my dear companion eat a little, but when I suggested that she should turn into her usual sleeping-place, she broke down again, declaring that to be impossible. The position was terribly distressing, she could not even lie by the fire and sleep, although I promised to stay by. She showed perfect trust in me, much as a young child would, but begged me not to press her to lie down at all there.
I knew that a good long sleep would greatly help her if she could obtain it, but I could think of nothing to suggest, until she asked me if I would mind sleeping there alone. I said "No," but wondered.
"Then," said she, "I think I should rest and sleep if I could be where you have been—in the dug-out—if Patch could stay with me."
I was surprised, but thankful, therefore we went there together. I made a big fire and left her with Patch, to my great contentment.
I slept for long. When I awoke I thought over the plans we had discussed; I weighed all the pros and cons, and tried to see the worst and best of the position of affairs. I prayed fervently to Almighty God for help, that wisdom and strength might be vouchsafed both of us; I prayed that this dear girl, who had in His providence been put into my care, might be given power and fortitude to bear up against the afflictions she was now experiencing, and the terrible trials and adventures she, I knew, had yet to face.
A great measure of peace, clearness of perception, and courage was bestowed on me; and when May came in by-and-by, I saw that she too had received refreshment and help, and was more like herself than she had been for many days. I lifted up my heart with thankfulness to Him who had so blessed us.
Her first words were brave and encouraging. I could understand that she had weighed and realised, and was not going to give way to useless repinings, but would be my courageous friend, my trusty companion and my help, so long as we were together fighting our way through the innumerable difficulties that we knew beset us.
We cooked breakfast, talked seriously for half an hour, then began to carry out our plans.
Our first duty was most distressing. We carried the body of Mr Bell to the little dug-out I had occupied, and she had slept in. Here we deposited it, covering it with a blanket.
May bore up bravely. I left her alone for a few moments; when she rejoined me outside she was silent. We secured the entrance against bears and foxes with rocks and logs.
I fashioned a cross and fastened it above the door; on it I wrote that it was the burial-place of William Bell, of Hawkenhurst, Kent, England, who died February 20, 1897, and a few other particulars.
We next secured the shanty. Having removed all we wished to carry away, we nailed a paper to the door stating to whom it belonged, giving the names of the party and their residences, outside; adding that the adjacent claim—describing the position of the boundary stakes—was their property, who were the discoverers of the gold, and that it was duly registered according to law.
As for the gold, we hid it safely: May had no fear of robbery, even if any one should wander that way, which was most unlikely, till spring at any rate.
We packed my sled with the remaining food, apparel, and a few things she required—some blankets and her tent; then as we found we could haul the load easily, Patch and I, we opened May's cache and added to our cargo fifty pounds' weight of gold, which was so much less to remove later, and so much saved in case bad characters should come across the place.
May and her father had kept a diary, so by means of the memoranda I had preserved we were enabled to discover with some certainty not only the day her father died, but when poor Meade "left."
Mr Bell passed away February 20, 1897, and Meade, November 10, 1896.
There was at this season some daylight; the sky was for some hours beautiful with sunrise colours—and the twilight lasted, though the sun was not up for very long.
We welcomed this promise of better times; indeed it was a great change from the monotony we had so long experienced.
Wrapped to the eyes in furs and blankets, May and I stood for a while impressed with the scene, whilst Patch, to whom cold made no difference, gambolled to his heart's content in the dry and powdery snow.
To us two poor human beings this cold appeared never to vary; it was intense always. We had no thermometer really to test it. We were rarely annoyed by wind; only once or twice whilst I was at the Bells' place was there anything approaching a breeze, and then we did not leave the house.
It was the 21st of February when we started, at noon, Patch and I harnessed to the sled. On the summit of the hill we halted to take a parting look at the scene of so much sad interest to May, and of so much mingled pain and pleasure to me. She shed many tears; but I hurried on, for I knew that her grief, though natural enough, would do no good, and I did my best to interest her in our surroundings, and thus allured her to brighter thoughts.
After this we got on famously. May had a pair of real Indian snow-shoes, and though out of practice, soon got into the peculiar stride again.
We arrived all well at my midway resting-place, where I shot the foxes: here we halted for tea and food. Out of some pines I shot two brace of grouse.
It had become night long before we reached my cabin, but the heavens were ablaze with northern lights, and we could see well to travel.
Very frequently I blazed trees along our course—that is, I slashed pieces of the bark off with my tomahawk, for I knew when the snow was gone the aspect of the country would be so changed that it would be no easy task, especially for strangers, to find their way without such indications.
We had no adventures, and arrived in due time at my gloomy habitation. A grand fire was soon blazing, and May was installed mistress thereof. I showed her all I possessed, and my way of housekeeping. Then as near as possible to the entrance we put up her tent substantially, lining it with blankets; we banked snow high up around it, brought in the usual layer of pine twigs, lit the stove, and thus made an exceedingly cosy sleeping-place for me, May rendering most efficient aid.
And now commenced a most singular life, in many ways to me a very happy one. Certainly my thoughts reverted often to the past, and I could not help thanking the good Providence which had blessed me with the company of this dear girl to fill the gap caused by the loss of my friend Meade, whose memory was, notwithstanding, very green with me, and whose absence from this changed aspect of our dugout home was to me inexpressibly sad.
May was grieving sorely at the loss she had sustained, I saw. I admired the way, however, in which she bore up. She seldom allowed me to see how she suffered from the discomfort and the misery of the life she led. Instead of complaining, she often expressed herself as most grateful to the Almighty, and to me, for the many comforts and blessings we had.
I was always grieving, though, that I could do so little to relieve her during what I knew must be a most miserable time; yet I had one great satisfaction, which, I admit, completely outweighed all my discomforts,—it was that I was so intimately associated with her, and it gratified me to know that I had been enabled to rescue and befriend her.
For a time I feared that she could be experiencing no atom of pleasure or comfort, but she frequently assured me that she was perfectly content, and, knowing that it would be impossible to mend matters for the present, she looked on the least dismal aspect of the situation and made the best of it, like the good, wise, girl she was, which made her lot easier to bear and my burden of anxiety lighter.
With a woman's tact she made the dismal burrow to appear brighter for her stay in it. There were few articles for her to manage with—brilliantly coloured blankets and a few skins of beasts we had killed was all. I think it was her sweet presence that, to my eyes, brightened matters more than anything, though often when I entered in a morning I saw some fresh evidence of her thoughtfulness and taste.
We passed our days in company, cooking and eating, reading and talking. Oh, how we talked! If some person could have peeped in at us when the slush-lamp was burning brightly, the fire was roaring up the chimney, and on the rough table an appetising meal was spread, they would have wondered. We were far better off, I fancy, than any others were that winter in the Yukon region. Certainly I was reconciled to my lot. Still I felt deeply for and pitied May.
Sitting dreamily by the fire one day, talking of our past adventures and planning our future course, we got on to the subject of Meade. I had been narrating how I met him, and how I came to be where I was and what he had done. "Where is he now?" asked May. "Will he come up here again in spring?"
I said "No—he has gone for good and all; he'll never return to me!"
"What! and left all his gold behind? You told me he had taken none away with him."
I was nonplussed, confounded. I did not know what to answer. I hesitated.
"Is there some mystery?" she asked. "By your look I feel sure there is some other sorrowful story—you are trying to hide it from me. Don't you wish me to know?—Ah! I see there is. Believe me, if it is something sad, I'll try to sympathise with you, as you have with me in my great sorrow, if that be possible."
I thanked her, assured her that it was a very melancholy story,—then I told her all there was to tell, even to where I had deposited the body of my friend; and I explained what his wishes were about his share of the gold, and that I intended, the first thing after reaching England, to see his mother and Fanny Hume, and carry them out.
It was a great satisfaction to me that May now knew all. There was henceforth nothing hidden from her. During this close companionship we had talked on every possible subject,—our past lives, our desires for our future, our friends and relatives, our hopes and aims,—until we knew each other perfectly.
Amongst other subjects we had some melancholy conversation about her father's death, which led to her speaking about his poor remains. She felt distressed when she thought of them lying in that place alone, so terribly alone, and frozen. "If they were buried in the earth it would seem more natural," she said once. "I believe I should feel much more at ease if that was done."
I promised her if it could be, it should be,—certainly before we left that region it must be.
"Why can they not be treated in the same way as you have interred your friend's remains?" she asked.
"There is no such tunnel up on your place—it cannot be done there." I shook my head in doubt. I was thinking, and the matter dropped.
Is it to be wondered that, day by day, as this sweet girl's character unfolded itself to me, I became more and more devoted to her? I cannot tell the moment when I realised that I loved her, when I felt that life held no greater prize for me than the affection of this, my dear companion in those vast solitudes.
That she liked me, I believed; that she felt towards me in the least as I felt towards her, I dared not hope.
Often I gazed longingly at her, yearning for the time when I could honourably ask her the question which was uppermost in my mind—"Could she ever love me?"
In all our intimate conversations the subject of love had never been discussed. I was not brave enough to broach it, and she never did. But often, oh! how very often, we two compared notes about our future plans, how we would live our future lives. We pledged ourselves to lifelong friendship; we vowed that, whatever betided us in the years to come, if, please God, we ever reached home again, we two would ever be in touch with one another, and would aid each other to carry out the plans we concocted in that gloomy home we had up near the Arctic Circle.
We each had plenty of money, or should have, if we succeeded in getting our gold away, and would then have the means to carry out the schemes we laid. What good we projected to our fellows! to all poor strugglers at home! What philanthropic associations we would help!
May's ideas of a happy, useful life were exactly the same as mine, which impressed me more and more with the desire, the hope, that we two might live that life together.
That the dear girl approved of me as a friend, I could not doubt, but that she had learned to love me I was not vain enough to believe. How could she love a rough, uncouth fellow like me, unkempt and dirty? I was all that then. It did not occur to me that she also was very far from presentable in civilised society. Her dress, like mine, was one mass of grease and blackness: the life we led amongst the smoke of the miserable slush-lamps, the cooking and grubbing, with no free use of water, and no soap, for neither of us had any left, had caused us to become very disreputable-looking beings. However, it was her sweet face which attracted me. It never occurred to me to think that for the rest she was not a whit better dressed or cared for than I was.
Certainly I felt in honour bound to treat this girl with the utmost deference, yet I often dreaded that my strong feeling for her would show itself, and then good-bye to much of our content. For if even, impossible as I then thought it, she felt the same regard for me as I did for her, the difficulty of our position would be greatly increased. Therefore I prayed God to enable me to control myself, and I am thankful to say He did, until the time arrived when it became possible for me to speak out plainly.
For a week or two after the death of Mr Bell I always addressed her as Miss Bell, and she spoke to me as Mr Singleton. It was stiff and formal, but I had not the power to suggest any change. One day, however, we being both outside, busy at some necessary work, she called to me to help her lift, or do something for her, and as usual called me Mr Singleton. "Oh!" I replied, "pray call me Bertie—it is time that Mister should be dropped, surely."
She smiled, as she answered, "Surely, surely it is, but you must call me May."
I being quite agreeable to this arrangement, it was May and Bertie between us from that time forward.
Gold-getting at this time was entirely given up: we scarcely mentioned the subject.
Were we satisfied with what we had obtained? I believe that we were to a great extent, for we knew that our claims were valuable, and we knew we could look to the future proceeds with assurance.
As for May's party's claim, she could do nothing. She believed it was safe, legally registered; and the American partners would return in the spring, and she had all the documents which her father had drawn up to prove her interest in it. With my claim it was much the same; I knew I could prove my title to it.
I believed then that it was only in the tunnel that the golden streak of gravel existed, and I really had not the courage to go in there to work alone, and of course I could not ask May to go in with me. She would have gone if I had, for she had a great objection to being alone, which I suppose was natural. She knew where Meade's body was lying; she knew where we had got gold, and I showed her my store of it in the cache.
Three weeks passed, during which we did a mere nothing: we were waiting till the season was more advanced, when we should have longer days, and so we made ourselves as contented as we could. We had planned, however, that when May had recovered some peace of mind, and had regained her health and strength, I should go back to their shanty with my toboggan, and bring the rest of her gold down.
I did this; I made the journey there and back in one day. She bravely wished to accompany me; it really was unnecessary, and after persuasion she consented to remain with Patch for company. I did not bring all her gold that trip, for I had formed another plan. I loaded some of it on the sled, but I also brought her father's body with me!
I had not told May of my intention, but I knew my scheme would please her. It was a melancholy undertaking, but I managed it all right, and crept silently back, and was able to take my burden into the tunnel without discovery. I left it there, came to May's door, and was welcomed home—it really seemed like home now.
I made some excuse about not bringing all her gold, and later, by manoeuvring, I managed to hew out a niche for the body of Mr Bell close to Meade's; indeed I got it all done without her guessing anything. She knew I went out with pick and shovel, and supposed that it was something to do with mining. Several days after, I told her what I had done. She was very grateful, and went with me to the place, and saw, with tear-dimmed eyes, where I had laid her father.
Shortly after I made another trip to her place and brought away the rest of her treasure; and then, in our burrow on the hillside, there were many thousand pounds' worth of bullion stowed away.
All this time we were seriously talking about how and when we should get away; but as yet there were no signs of spring, further than increasing length of daylight.
During this time a very curious thing happened as we sat one evening by our fire, May and I, talking and planning: she, with a wooden stick we used as a poker, was stirring the earth of the floor about, when she exclaimed, "Why, there's a bit of gold!"
It was so, a piece the size of a bean. I supposed, at first, that I had in some way dropped it there, but when she stirred the earth again and found another piece or two, we realised that it was pay dirt that our floor was composed of! This set us examining, and we soon discovered that not only was the earth beneath us, but the very walls and roof of our abode, full of gold!
We scooped out with pick and shovel a large portion of one side of the dug-out, we carefully picked over the stuff we moved, and it was surprising how many coarse pieces we found. We had several meat tins full of small nuggets before a week went by, and we piled up before our door a heap—a dump—of what we knew was rich stuff, ready to be washed in spring.
However, we two had become so used to finding gold before, that this experience did not excite us as you might suppose. We knew we had a rich claim here anyway, and that May's party had a rich one farther in; we realised we were well off, had each made a very decent pile, and were perfectly well aware that what was of most immediate importance was to get away to arrange for the safety of the gold we had actually got, and legally to secure our claims. Our gold-digging, therefore, was more a pastime than a serious employment—we were eagerly looking forward to start for Dawson.
To wait till our creek opened in June, then float with all we possessed down it on the raft to its junction with the Klondyke, where our boat was cached, seemed at first the only way for us; but could we wait so long? No. We discussed, we projected, we planned, and at last we determined to pack the toboggan with all that we three could drag, and depart at once.
I had all my gear ready—May only needed a sleeping-bag, which we constructed—we cooked a good supply of food, packed all with fifty pounds of gold, and one bright noon-day we started, as we fondly hoped, to civilisation and home.
To those who do not know what moving about in winter in that arctic region means, it may appear strange that we should have made so much ado about this journey of one hundred miles or so. If I had been alone I might have thought less of this undertaking. If I had had a man for a companion, or even if we two had had no experience, we might have gone at it more light-heartedly. But we not only had the terror of the journey to face, and well knew that it was likely to be a terribly arduous one indeed, but we were full of anxiety, when it came to the point, about the valuable stores and gear we must leave behind us, above all our great hoard of gold. As I have explained, the difficulty had been to decide whether to wait till the creek opened and go down with all that we possessed, or to leave the bulk behind, trusting to its safety. We had chosen the latter plan, for we were impatient, at any rate May was, to get away from this awful place—to get home, in fact. So, putting our trust in God's protection, we started.
Our course was plain, the creek formed an avenue through the trees. It was fairly level, though we encountered many ridges and drifts of snow, which was deep; but the weather having been calm for some time, it had settled down and packed a little. Our load was very heavy, and the toboggan sunk in a good deal. Patch and I hauled in front usually, and May pushed, but sometimes, to make a change, she hauled in front; but breaking the track was generally too hard for her. What made our load, probably 300 lb. in weight, still harder to drag was that we could not pull with our snow-shoes on successfully, so gave them up, then sank in, often to our knees, sometimes to our waists; and many a time neither Patch nor I seemed able to get any secure foothold. As for my dear girl, she bravely struggled on and did her best to aid us, but really many times had all that she could do to keep herself from sinking out of sight in the dry powdery snow.
I don't believe we made three miles the first day. Our camp that night was in a clump of stunted pines. We put up our two tents close beside each other, lighting a big fire in front which warmed them both, and really in our sleeping-bags we felt little cold. May's tent being by far the larger, in it I ate with her, then turned into my own shelter for the night.
The following day I believe we made five miles. We were awfully fatigued; and having to put up tents, cut bedding, build the fire, and cook, was no light work after our day's march. That day I saw many tracks of wolves and foxes. I supposed my companion did not notice them, so I said nothing, for I did not wish to add to her discomfort the alarm of attacks from wild beasts. But I have learned since that she did see them and inwardly dreaded what they meant, yet kept her knowledge from me lest I should suffer more anxiety. She just "put her trust in God," she said, "and hoped He would protect us."
For several days and nights we had perfect weather, cold of course, I suppose it was never less than 15° or 20° below zero. Then on the seventh day—having made, we thought, fifty miles—as we were nearing the mouth of our creek, it began to blow! We well knew what that meant. The sky at noon was dark as night, the weird mountains were enshrouded in mists of driving snow. Down in the sheltered avenue, where we were struggling along, it was yet a breeze only, but even that seemed to cut us to our very marrow in spite of our furs and wraps: we realised that we must halt at once, make shelter somehow, somewhere, and lie up whilst this storm should last.
There was a high and rocky bank near the margin of the creek. I donned my snow-shoes and tramped across the snow to examine it, and fortunately found a sort of bay or gap between two huge boulders, which would protect us from most winds, and a big fire across the entrance would warm the air somewhat. Here we pitched our tents, and here we lay for three days and nights whilst the tempest howled past us.
Providentially there was no snowfall, only banks of it were lifted up and carried past our retreat in clouds, which caused us to dread every moment that a blast would curl it in on us and smother us. However, mercifully we were spared this horror, and on the fourth day the sun came out as the wind dropped, and we were able to move on. But it was awful work: my heart bled for May,—I could not help but show how much I felt for her. I could not refrain from exclamations which, I know now, showed her where my thoughts were, and what I felt. She, dear girl, quite understood: for she assures me that during all this dreadful time her one thought and hope was that in the time to come, if it should please God to bring us out of these horrors, she would be able to devote her life to my happiness and consolation in part payment for what she is pleased to speak of as my devotion to her,—just as if any man would not willingly risk life and limb for any woman in such a case—-just as if I, with such a girl as May, was not altogether glad to do anything and everything to help her.
The following day we got to and camped in the cave where our boat was hidden. It was with difficulty I found the place, everything was so deeply bedded in snow,—very different to when I parted those months before with Indian Fan and Jim. We had stowed the boat so safely that it was dry and free from snow, as the cave was. We camped that night in it, May taking up her quarters in the boat.
For some time we had not noticed tracks of any kind; but the following morning, which was bright and calm, I left the cave to May a while, and tramped down to the edge of the larger Klondyke river to make a survey of the route, and to discover, if possible, what the prospects were for our day's work.
There I was struck with astonishment to notice numerous footmarks along the margin. To be sure they were covered with fresh drifted snow, but my woodcraft taught me that they had been made recently. There was a regular path, which looked to have been much travelled. Certainly, I thought, it was a bear-track; and yet, knowing that those creatures hibernate, I was nonplussed. Did the Yukon bears behave as others, I wondered. Perhaps the St Elias grizzlies do not sleep the winter through. Was it wolves? I looked anxiously; the traces were too large, and spaced differently to their tracks. However, there was a well-used way, and I was greatly troubled.
We had by this time become so used to the toil and hardship of this mode of travel, that I was not surprised to find May in excellent spirits when I returned to camp. The brightness of the morning; the sunlight on the snow; the brilliant iridescence of the ice-bespangled branches of the trees, and the broader outlook across the white, wide expanse of the Klondyke; the knowledge of our having attained the first stage of our momentous journey safely; indeed, the very finding of the boat, which was the first link, as one may term it, with civilisation,—did so cheer the dear girl that she greeted me almost joyously as she bustled about with our cooking arrangements. We had promised ourselves a sumptuous repast on reaching the Klondyke, and I had fortunately knocked over a brace of grouse the day before, so we were reckoning on our breakfast.
But I was certainly bothered by the tracks I had seen, and May, noticing my preoccupied aspect, rallied me thereon. This made me put on a brighter look, and in my mind I determined to say nothing, to take all due precautions, and to put my trust for the rest in the good God who had protected us hitherto.
When we started on—gaily on May's part, trustfully on mine—we soon came to this track. Patch instantly noticed it, and would not move on. He whined, whimpered, and nosed it; then looking up and down the path, he whined again.
May was attracted by this proceeding. I endeavoured to pull ahead, saying nothing, merely calling to the dog to come on; but she, perceiving a trail of some kind, hesitated too. "Is it a bear path?" she inquired.
"Bears hibernate, you know," was my reply; "they don't make paths like that in winter."
"It must be caribou, or moose—perhaps there are cattle here, or, maybe, it's the track of people!"
"People here!—not likely." I shook my head as I spoke. "Who would be here, do you think?—Indians? Well, that might be, but I fancy they don't come about here at this season."
"Let us travel along it," said she; "it looks to be an easy way. Whatever made it, appears to have chosen the smoothest route," for we could perceive the trail for some distance winding amongst the scattered timber along the margin of the stream.
Now, my idea was to get as far away from those suspicious footmarks as possible. I wished to take to the middle of the creek, and we did so by-and-by, after I had assured my companion that I considered the level ice out there promised a better road. But she was not very easily persuaded. I believe she had the idea in her head that this path was made by human beings, and she had, naturally, a strong desire for the fellowship of her kind. As for me, I had no belief in anything but bears, and as for getting amongst people again—I wanted to, simply because it was necessary if we were ever to get home; yet I rather disliked the idea, for I knew well it would be the ending of her sweet companionship.
I cannot quite truly describe how I felt just then. Certainly there was an immense amount of suffering in our life, but I thought little of my share in it, for was I not suffering with May? and I did not look forward with entire pleasure to its ending. Only, for her dear sake, only to put an end to her discomfort, her misery, I knew what my duty was, and did it.
We hauled our load out into the wide white lane and travelled down towards Dawson. And as we moved slowly, laboriously onwards, I rarely took my eyes from where I knew that mysterious trail was winding through the timber.
It was laborious work, truly. The snow was deep, and it was not packed. There averaged three feet of it, then there seemed to be a heavy crust, and if one broke through that, which we often did, we found a layer of slush—half-melted snow—sometimes but a few inches deep, at others a yard or more, and only under this was the solid ice of the river. I used to go ahead with my pole and sound where I thought it looked suspicious. Often I thus steered clear of difficulty, and often I did not, for many a time the load, and May, and I, sunk in to such a depth that it was actually alarming. She bravely suppressed outcries and expressions of fear. She tried to laugh over these deplorable episodes, and sometimes I saw her gaze longingly on what she thought was a much better road in there amongst the trees, but, dear girl, she never tried to argue with me, or even to discuss the reason for my dislike to it.
Before noon our mocassins and leggings were wet and miserable. We ourselves were in a bath of perspiration. It was difficult to believe that it was freezing as hard as ever, and only when, after a few hundred yards of easy going, we halted to take breath, were we aware how cold it was, by our frozen leg-coverings.
We camped for our mid-day food on a brush-clad point on the south side. It was absolutely still and clear. On taking off our snow-glasses the light was so painfully dazzling that we understood what snow-blindness meant, and gladly put them on again. I caused May here to change her foot-wear, as we were staying long enough to dry our wet mocassins by the fire. It was a snug corner we had chosen. We had a side view both up and down the Klondyke and across it.
As we sat, as usual talking of our future, Patch suddenly stood up with bristling mane and gazed across the river. "There's something over there," said I; "that's just as he did when we first heard your shots up the creek there," and we gazed and listened intently, the dog as deeply interested as May and I were.
I, supposing it was bear or wolf that had thus excited Patch, felt thankful that we were on the side we were, and got my gun in order.
Patch's excitement increased. He began to bark. With difficulty I restrained him, and made him lie down. I stopped his barking, but I could not make him cease growling. This excited us, and we watched the opposite shore closely.
May was the first to discover the cause. Two men were tramping along the track across the river!—whether whites or Indians they were too far off to see.
The expression of my dear companion's face at this discovery was peculiar. She was flushed with excitement as she said to me, "Come, let us call to them. Oh, how splendid to see other people,—to realise that we are not alone in this dreadful country!"
Laying my mittened hand on her shoulder, I remarked, "Stop—let us think: they may be friends or foes; we must be cautious. Besides, what do we really want? We know our way, and we have all we need. It is satisfactory to know we are in an inhabited land, that is all."
"Oh, how terribly cautious and careful you are, Bertie!" she exclaimed. "I should like to run over to those two men and greet them. But you know best; oh, yes, I'm sure you do, forgive my impetuosity—only it is so fine to know that we are really going home."
The two men did not notice us—they kept steadily on: we could just see one was carrying a pack, the other pulling a little laden sledge behind him. They were heading up the river, and in due course would cross our trail, then, perhaps, would follow it, which was a serious aspect of the case indeed! They would not only find our boat, but could trace us to our dug-out, where all was at their mercy. What could be done? Nothing. We could only put our trust in God that all would be well.
I kept silence to May on these points, and hoped that she would not be troubled by the same fears.
One thing satisfied us both now, and that was that the trail across the river was really made by people, and from what we saw of the way the strangers got along it, it was very much better than where we had been travelling, so with one accord we packed up, and with a will hauled our sled across the river and hit that trail.
The fresh traces of the men were minutely examined. The leader had worn snow-shoes, the other boots—we could see the heel marks. This hardly pointed to Indians, nor old hands—for all but the greenest tender-feet wear mocassins, in the winter there.
This trail was a great improvement; we moved along it quickly—two miles an hour at least!
We had gone perhaps five miles; it was, we thought, getting on for four that afternoon; we were resting, when against a rather dense growth of firs we thought we saw smoke rising.
Now you must understand that we were both in a flutter of excitement all that afternoon. We had said little to each other about it, but I know we felt that we were likely at any moment to meet with some adventure, pleasant or the reverse. We were all eyes and ears. I could see May glance hurriedly and look intently, now in one direction, now in another. Even the dog appeared to be expecting something: as for me, I knew, of course, that very soon a great change would come in our lives, my thoughts were occupied with this subject, and I was trying to think how I should deal with every episode that I could imagine might arise. Once or twice before, we had stopped to gaze around as May or I had cried, "What is that over there?" But up to the present it had turned out to be merely a curious stump, or uproot, or some such bush object. We were on the qui vive.
So we considered for a little that we might be mistaken about this appearance also. It might be a wisp of snow lifted by the wind, or some shaken from the trees by a passing breeze: however, I soon saw that it was very blue, that it was rising steadily, that it was no hallucination, and that it was smoke, certainly.
A very momentous time had arrived. "My dear May," I murmured, "that is smoke—that means a camp, most likely of white people. Our lonely life ends the moment we arrive there."
"Oh, what a good thing!" she cried; "but why look so serious?"
"God knows what will happen to us," said I. "We may find ourselves able at once to go on with comparative ease to Dawson and home. We may find obstacles in our way—bad characters, who knows what? But any way we have up to now, through God's good mercy, been kept from any great harm, and we will trust Him still."
"Why, of course we will," she interjected: "but why are you so sad?"
"I cannot help feeling sad," I answered, "to know that you and I must now cease to be what we have been to each other; but remember that I shall not leave you, nor cease to help you all I can, until I know you are safe at home in England with your mother. Whatever comes to pass during the next few hours, or until that happy time arrives, believe in me and trust me."
"My dear Bertie, my great friend, what is come to you? Do you think I'm going to doubt you, or leave you now?"
"I hope not, indeed, indeed," I interjected.
"Why, amongst these rough fellows," she went on, "as, of course, they will be, I shall want you beside me more and more. I shall, I expect, want your protection and advice more perhaps—though that can hardly be—than I have as yet needed it."
"And you shall have it, May—be sure of that," said I.
"One thing is certain, though, that whoever they are, whatever kind of people they may prove to be," she continued, "I shall, as you say, till we reach home and mother, look to you for companionship and guidance. So don't look any more like that at me; don't be downhearted now, but come, let us hurry on and find out what our fate is."
Then on we went. Within a few minutes we were in sight of a camp. There were two log-shanties and a shelter or two; a huge chimney smoking, and other signs of humanity; a couple of figures were moving about; we had arrived at the haunts of men again!
We had paid little attention to the trail of late, but now noticed that there were sleigh tracks branching from it here and there—dog's tracks, men's tracks: here were stumps lately cut, there the traces of where logs had been hauled out of the bush. Now we were continually exclaiming to each other about these wonders.
Patch was excited—on the alert. When, a little farther on, he heard dogs barking, it was hard to control him. It was their noise, I suppose, that gave notice of our arrival, for we soon descried two or three persons looking towards us, whilst a couple of fine huskies came bounding through the snow, looking anything but friendly. However, they withdrew as we marched on, and were called off as we got close. When we at last halted near the first shanty, one man sung out to us, "Welcome, friends! ye'll be frae Quigly Creek, I'll warrant. How goes it there?"