Hugh took a pail and went off to the river.

George Bruce was away with an axe getting wood, so John was left in charge. Shortly afterwards George came along, hauling a log of firewood by an axe driven into it. John ran to a.s.sist him, and when the two had returned with the wood Hugh was arriving with the water. John again turned his attention to the frying-pan: the largest piece of steak was gone!

"What has happened to the steak?" John asked.

Hugh looked. A grim smile came over his face.

"Dude!"

"Dude could not steal steak out of a frying-pan?"

"Not Dude? You bet your life that's where the steak has gone to. And there is no use licking him; the only way to cure Dude of stealing is to cut his tail off behind his ears. I told you Dude would rather steal than eat: and this shows how careful you must be."

Dude was lying a picture of innocence on the snow. How he could maintain an appearance of unconcern with a broiling hot beef-steak inside him was a marvel! John looked at him amazed: the smallest slit of a black eye was watching him.

"I was only away about three minutes."

"Half a minute is enough for Dude. He likes beef-steak!"

Hugh refilled the pan and then--civilization knows no artifice to better the enjoyment of such a meal!

They were partakers, too, of another repast--their souls were fed by the glories of nature: the sun was setting; its splendour spread from high in the heavens to the rugged range that yesterday had resisted them. On that vast canvas were painted salmon-coloured clouds with long ribbons of yellow, bearing the l.u.s.tre of burnished gold.

It was the extreme of grandeur, awe-inspiring and enn.o.bling. The evening was very still.

CHAPTER IX

STORM AND STRESS

It was five o'clock on the morrow before the party was up, and six o'clock before, breakfast cooked and eaten, John and Hugh were on the road to the summit. They were to travel the twenty miles there, and return with one thousand pounds of supplies.

The glow of the sun was already upon the mountains when they set out.

"Say! it's going to be a hot day, and it's going to thaw some. It'll make hauling easy, but our feet will be pretty wet; good thing we've got some dry socks and rubbers in our outfit at the summit. Another thing is, we're going to meet a whole lot of fellows on the trail the way we're going to-day; and, what's worse, we'll get more of them coming back."

Sure enough, after they left Log Cabin, they could see the toilers coming, winding in a snake-like procession among the hills.

Hugh had prophesied correctly. By eleven o'clock they were in their shirt-sleeves. The dazzling whiteness of the snow, reflected from all sides, made the use of smoke-gla.s.ses necessary; but the perspiration, dimming the gla.s.s, troubled their sight. The end of John's nose became painful; his cheeks burned. It reminded him of the after-effects of his first sunny spring day on the water in England.

They met and pa.s.sed scores of teams, and still more were pouring over the summit when they arrived there at one o'clock. It was half-past two before they had their feet encased in German socks and rubber shoes, and their load ready again for the trail.

"We can't make home before dark, but we should be able to make Log Cabin by seven, after which the trail will be clear, and we should arrive by ten. This trail will be mighty good going after it starts to freeze, which it will do, soon as the sun goes down."

At four o'clock they were three miles on the trail. There was already frost in the air.

Ere another half-hour had pa.s.sed Hugh felt his cheek smitten by a gust of wind, laden with particles of ice.

"I thought so!" he exclaimed; "these last few days have shown too large a pay streak of spring to last. We're in for trouble. It will be down on us in half an hour. All we can do is to keep on as we are going, steadily. I guess we shall make Log Cabin, but not with this load. The soft snow makes a thousand pounds too much for the dogs. Look!" He pointed to a miniature cyclone coming along the trail, drinking up the ice particles as it whirled. It struck them sharply as a gust of wind.

The first contact of the storm was cold and cutting; then the wind veered, and down came the snow. The sleigh was soon too heavy.

"The only thing is to cache the sleigh and turn the dogs loose; the chances are we won't be able to keep the trail in this storm; and if we do come out alive, we won't be able to find the sleigh if we abandon it far from the trail."

"Do you think the storm will be very bad?"

"It's bad now, ain't it? How long will it be before there is eighteen inches of snow on this trail? For a time we can keep it by feeling it hard under us; but we are liable to get off it--and once lost, there is no finding it again. Mind, the wind is blowing from the right, half to the rear. Here's a tree; I've noticed this lone spruce before, and we can find it again. Let us stand the sleigh up against it, and turn the dogs loose."

So to the tree dogs and men struggled; the dogs were unhitched, harness was piled on top of the load. Then, with a great effort, the men managed to up-end the load against the tree.

Hugh called Dude to him, and pulled an old envelope out of his pocket, on which he scratched: "Cached sleigh on north side of trail by spruce tree, five miles from the summit.--Hugh Spencer." This he tied to a handkerchief, and that to Dude's collar.

"It's no harm letting George know where the grub is, for if we don't find camp again, Dude will."

The dogs went, Dude leading, and were soon lost to sight.

Down the trail the two men strode. The snow was six inches deep already, the wind piling it upon the trail. The weather did not feel cold; in fact, both were comfortably warm. For an hour they plodded along.

Occasionally one would plunge into the soft snow and scramble back on to the beaten trail. Conversation was not much indulged in.

The light began to fail, yet they stumbled along. There was nothing they could recognize in the boulders and cliffs that loomed around them in a deathly monotony.

For half an hour darkness was upon them, when Hugh remarked that Log Cabin could not be far away. Immediately following his remark they plunged into soft snow. The trail seemed to have come to an end; but this could not be so. They retraced their steps and regained firm footing. They felt cautiously around with their feet, but could find the underlying snow hard only in the direction whence they came.

"I guess we're off the trail, and have walked along a bank where the wind has packed the old snow good and hard. Looks to me as if we was lost."

"Don't give up," said John.

"Give up! I ain't giving up; but we're lost. I won't give up as long as I can wiggle."

"What had we better do?"

"Keep moving! If you don't, you freeze!" Spencer's voice was low and serious as he said, "Keep the wind on your right side; and if you've got any last will and testament to make, scratch it on a piece of paper and leave it in your pocket before your hands get numb, or your mind weak.

We're up against it hard! We will stay together, of course; but should we get separated, don't move too fast, or you will tire yourself out and go to sleep in the snow. Don't let sleep take hold of you, or you're dead! Just keep moving fast enough to keep warm, or, at least, from freezing; go down hill rather than up; and don't fall over a cliff. Have you ever been up against a life-and-death proposition? If not, you are pretty near one now."

They proceeded on their uncertain journey, but were soon floundering in soft snow. They kept on. It was easy enough to say "keep going down-hill," but, so far as John was concerned, he seemed to be walking up-hill all the time. They frequently exchanged shouts, and so remained together.

For hours they plodded on, the snowfall growing less, but the cold greater.

John began to act, to call, mechanically. His mind in that desolate trampling was transported to happier places. He thought of his Alice Peel. She was probably, he mused, thinking of him also. Did her mind ever picture such experiences as he was now realizing? She would possibly read in the newspapers of the great rush of gold-seekers over those terrible mountains and through the stormy pa.s.ses. If he should die in that storm, and months afterwards she heard of his demise?... The thought drifted along to several loose ends. He must not sleep, or he would die; and it was his duty to live; but--oh! to sleep!... His father, and the old school, the church services! How much he would like to hear the old organ and the choir!... It had been the family wish that he should take Holy Orders, and he had refused the vocation, feeling it not his. Had he done right? He believed yes.... He might be about to meet his Creator. What might his record be?...

His mind went back to an occasion in Australia, when he had been lost in the Bush, and had wandered for days without water, till some blacks found him. He remembered, before going into unconsciousness with his back against a rock, that a vulture was watching him. He had taken a piece of stone, and, pretending it was a pistol, had pointed it at the bird....

John Berwick's mind was picturing sand and heat, while above him roared the Arctic storm.

How cold it was getting, and the wind was beginning to blow! The parka did not sufficiently protect his face.