John Messner clung with mittened2 hand to the bucking3 gee-pole and held the sled in the trail. With the other mittened hand he rubbed his cheeks and nose. He rubbed his cheeks and nose every little while. In point of fact, he rarely ceased from rubbing them, and sometimes, as their numbness4 increased, he rubbed fiercely. His forehead was covered by the visor of his fur cap, the flaps of which went over his ears. The rest of his face was protected by a thick beard, golden-brown under its coating of frost.
Behind him churned a heavily loaded Yukon sled, and before him toiled7 a string of five dogs. The rope by which they dragged the sled rubbed against the side of Messner’s leg. When the dogs swung on a bend in the trail, he stepped over the rope. There were many bends, and he was compelled to step over it often. Sometimes he tripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward, betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran upon his heels.
When he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could get along for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole and batted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood. He found it difficult to keep up the circulation in that hand. But while he pounded the one hand, he never ceased from rubbing his nose and cheeks with the other.
“It’s too cold to travel, anyway,” he said. He spoke8 aloud, after the manner of men who are much by themselves. “Only a fool would travel at such a temperature. If it isn’t eighty below, it’s because it’s seventy-nine.”
He pulled out his watch, and after some fumbling9 got it back into the breast pocket of his thick woollen jacket. Then he surveyed the heavens and ran his eye along the white sky-line to the south.
“Twelve o’clock,” he mumbled10, “A clear sky, and no sun.”
He plodded11 on silently for ten minutes, and then, as though there had been no lapse12 in his speech, he added:
“And no ground covered, and it’s too cold to travel.”
Suddenly he yelled “Whoa!” at the dogs, and stopped. He seemed in a wild panic over his right hand, and proceeded to hammer it furiously against the gee-pole.
“You—poor—devils!” he addressed the dogs, which had dropped down heavily on the ice to rest. His was a broken, jerky utterance13, caused by the violence with which he hammered his numb5 hand upon the wood. “What have you done anyway that a two-legged other animal should come along, break you to harness, curb14 all your natural proclivities15, and make slave-beasts out of you?”
He rubbed his nose, not reflectively, but savagely16, in order to drive the blood into it, and urged the dogs to their work again. He travelled on the frozen surface of a great river. Behind him it stretched away in a mighty17 curve of many miles, losing itself in a fantastic jumble18 of mountains, snow-covered and silent. Ahead of him the river split into many channels to accommodate the freight of islands it carried on its breast. These islands were silent and white. No animals nor humming insects broke the silence. No birds flew in the chill air. There was no sound of man, no mark of the handiwork of man. The world slept, and it was like the sleep of death.
John Messner seemed succumbing19 to the apathy20 of it all. The frost was benumbing his spirit. He plodded on with bowed head, unobservant, mechanically rubbing nose and cheeks, and batting his steering21 hand against the gee-pole in the straight trail-stretches.
But the dogs were observant, and suddenly they stopped, turning their heads and looking back at their master out of eyes that were wistful and questioning. Their eyelashes were frosted white, as were their muzzles22, and they had all the seeming of decrepit24 old age, what of the frost-rime and exhaustion25.
The man was about to urge them on, when he checked himself, roused up with an effort, and looked around. The dogs had stopped beside a water-hole, not a fissure26, but a hole man-made, chopped laboriously27 with an axe28 through three and a half feet of ice. A thick skin of new ice showed that it had not been used for some time. Messner glanced about him. The dogs were already pointing the way, each wistful and hoary29 muzzle23 turned toward the dim snow-path that left the main river trail and climbed the bank of the island.
“All right, you sore-footed brutes30,” he said. “I’ll investigate. You’re not a bit more anxious to quit than I am.”
He climbed the bank and disappeared. The dogs did not lie down, but on their feet eagerly waited his return. He came back to them, took a hauling-rope from the front of the sled, and put it around his shoulders. Then he gee’d the dogs to the right and put them at the bank on the run. It was a stiff pull, but their weariness fell from them as they crouched31 low to the snow, whining32 with eagerness and gladness as they struggled upward to the last ounce of effort in their bodies. When a dog slipped or faltered33, the one behind nipped his hind6 quarters. The man shouted encouragement and threats, and threw all his weight on the hauling-rope.
They cleared the bank with a rush, swung to the left, and dashed up to a small log cabin. It was a deserted34 cabin of a single room, eight feet by ten on the inside. Messner unharnessed the animals, unloaded his sled and took possession. The last chance wayfarer35 had left a supply of firewood. Messner set up his light sheet-iron stove and starred a fire. He put five sun-cured salmon36 into the oven to thaw37 out for the dogs, and from the water-hole filled his coffee-pot and cooking-pail.
While waiting for the water to boil, he held his face over the stove. The moisture from his breath had collected on his beard and frozen into a great mass of ice, and this he proceeded to thaw out. As it melted and dropped upon the stove it sizzled and rose about him in steam. He helped the process with his fingers, working loose small ice-chunks that fell rattling38 to the floor.
A wild outcry from the dogs without did not take him from his task. He heard the wolfish snarling39 and yelping40 of strange dogs and the sound of voices. A knock came on the door.
“Come in,” Messner called, in a voice muffled41 because at the moment he was sucking loose a fragment of ice from its anchorage on his upper lip.
The door opened, and, gazing out of his cloud of steam, he saw a man and a woman pausing on the threshold.
“Come in,” he said peremptorily42, “and shut the door!”
Peering through the steam, he could make out but little of their personal appearance. The nose and cheek strap43 worn by the woman and the trail-wrappings about her head allowed only a pair of black eyes to be seen. The man was dark-eyed and smooth-shaven all except his mustache, which was so iced up as to hide his mouth.
“We just wanted to know if there is any other cabin around here,” he said, at the same time glancing over the unfurnished state of the room. “We thought this cabin was empty.”
“It isn’t my cabin,” Messner answered. “I just found it a few minutes ago. Come right in and camp. Plenty of room, and you won’t need your stove. There’s room for all.”
At the sound of his voice the woman peered at him with quick curiousness.
“Get your things off,” her companion said to her. “I’ll unhitch and get the water so we can start cooking.”
Messner took the thawed44 salmon outside and fed his dogs. He had to guard them against the second team of dogs, and when he had reëntered the cabin the other man had unpacked45 the sled and fetched water. Messner’s pot was boiling. He threw in the coffee, settled it with half a cup of cold water, and took the pot from the stove. He thawed some sour-dough biscuits in the oven, at the same time heating a pot of beans he had boiled the night before and that had ridden frozen on the sled all morning.
Removing his utensils46 from the stove, so as to give the newcomers a chance to cook, he proceeded to take his meal from the top of his grub-box, himself sitting on his bed-roll. Between mouthfuls he talked trail and dogs with the man, who, with head over the stove, was thawing47 the ice from his mustache. There were two bunks48 in the cabin, and into one of them, when he had cleared his lip, the stranger tossed his bed-roll.
“We’ll sleep here,” he said, “unless you prefer this bunk49. You’re the first comer and you have first choice, you know.”
“That’s all right,” Messner answered. “One bunk’s just as good as the other.”
He spread his own bedding in the second bunk, and sat down on the edge. The stranger thrust a physician’s small travelling case under his blankets at one end to serve for a pillow.
“Doctor?” Messner asked.
“Yes,” came the answer, “but I assure you I didn’t come into the Klondike to practise.”
The woman busied herself with cooking, while the man sliced bacon and fired the stove. The light in the cabin was dim, filtering through in a small window made of onion-skin writing paper and oiled with bacon grease, so that John Messner could not make out very well what the woman looked like. Not that he tried. He seemed to have no interest in her. But she glanced curiously50 from time to time into the dark corner where he sat.
“Oh, it’s a great life,” the doctor proclaimed enthusiastically, pausing from sharpening his knife on the stovepipe. “What I like about it is the struggle, the endeavor with one’s own hands, the primitiveness51 of it, the realness.”
“The temperature is real enough,” Messner laughed.
“Do you know how cold it actually is?” the doctor demanded.
The other shook his head.
“Well, I’ll tell you. Seventy-four below zero by spirit thermometer on the sled.”
“That’s one hundred and six below freezing point—too cold for travelling, eh?”
“Practically suicide,” was the doctor’s verdict. “One exerts himself. He breathes heavily, taking into his lungs the frost itself. It chills his lungs, freezes the edges of the tissues. He gets a dry, hacking52 cough as the dead tissue sloughs53 away, and dies the following summer of pneumonia54, wondering what it’s all about. I’ll stay in this cabin for a week, unless the thermometer rises at least to fifty below.”
“I say, Tess,” he said, the next moment, “don’t you think that coffee’s boiled long enough!”
At the sound of the woman’s name, John Messner became suddenly alert. He looked at her quickly, while across his face shot a haunting expression, the ghost of some buried misery55 achieving swift resurrection. But the next moment, and by an effort of will, the ghost was laid again. His face was as placid56 as before, though he was still alert, dissatisfied with what the feeble light had shown him of the woman’s face.
Automatically, her first act had been to set the coffee-pot back. It was not until she had done this that she glanced at Messner. But already he had composed himself. She saw only a man sitting on the edge of the bunk and incuriously studying the toes of his moccasins. But, as she turned casually57 to go about her cooking, he shot another swift look at her, and she, glancing as swiftly back, caught his look. He shifted on past her to the doctor, though the slightest smile curled his lip in appreciation58 of the way she had trapped him.
She drew a candle from the grub-box and lighted it. One look at her illuminated59 face was enough for Messner. In the small cabin the widest limit was only a matter of several steps, and the next moment she was alongside of him. She deliberately60 held the candle close to his face and stared at him out of eyes wide with fear and recognition. He smiled quietly back at her.
“What are you looking for, Tess?” the doctor called.
“Hairpins,” she replied, passing on and rummaging61 in a clothes-bag on the bunk.
They served their meal on their grub-box, sitting on Messner’s grub-box and facing him. He had stretched out on his bunk to rest, lying on his side, his head on his arm. In the close quarters it was as though the three were together at table.
“What part of the States do you come from?” Messner asked.
“San Francisco,” answered the doctor. “I’ve been in here two years, though.”
“I hail from California myself,” was Messner’s announcement.
The woman looked at him appealingly, but he smiled and went on:
“Berkeley, you know.”
The other man was becoming interested.
“U. C.?” he asked.
“Yes, Class of ’86.”
“I meant faculty62,” the doctor explained. “You remind me of the type.”
“Sorry to hear you say so,” Messner smiled back. “I’d prefer being taken for a prospector63 or a dog-musher.”
“I don’t think he looks any more like a professor than you do a doctor,” the woman broke in.
“Thank you,” said Messner. Then, turning to her companion, “By the way, Doctor, what is your name, if I may ask?”
“Haythorne, if you’ll take my word for it. I gave up cards with civilization.”
“And Mrs. Haythorne,” Messner smiled and bowed.
She flashed a look at him that was more anger than appeal.
Haythorne was about to ask the other’s name. His mouth had opened to form the question when Messner cut him off.
“Come to think of it, Doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfy my curiosity. There was a sort of scandal in faculty circles some two or three years ago. The wife of one of the English professors—er, if you will pardon me, Mrs. Haythorne—disappeared with some San Francisco doctor, I understood, though his name does not just now come to my lips. Do you remember the incident?”
Haythorne nodded his head. “Made quite a stir at the time. His name was Womble—Graham Womble. He had a magnificent practice. I knew him somewhat.”
“Well, what I was trying to get at was what had become of them. I was wondering if you had heard. They left no trace, hide nor hair.”
“He covered his tracks cunningly.” Haythorne cleared his throat. “There was rumor65 that they went to the South Seas—were lost on a trading schooner66 in a typhoon, or something like that.”
“I never heard that,” Messner said. “You remember the case, Mrs. Haythorne?”
“Perfectly,” she answered, in a voice the control of which was in amazing contrast to the anger that blazed in the face she turned aside so that Haythorne might not see.
The latter was again on the verge67 of asking his name, when Messner remarked:
“This Dr. Womble, I’ve heard he was very handsome, and—er—quite a success, so to say, with the ladies.”
“Well, if he was, he finished himself off by that affair,” Haythorne grumbled68.
“And the woman was a termagant—at least so I’ve been told. It was generally accepted in Berkeley that she made life—er—not exactly paradise for her husband.”
“I never heard that,” Haythorne rejoined. “In San Francisco the talk was all the other way.”
“Woman sort of a martyr69, eh?—crucified on the cross of matrimony?”
The doctor nodded. Messner’s gray eyes were mildly curious as he went on:
“That was to be expected—two sides to the shield. Living in Berkeley I only got the one side. She was a great deal in San Francisco, it seems.”
“Some coffee, please,” Haythorne said.
The woman refilled his mug, at the same time breaking into light laughter.
“You’re gossiping like a pair of beldames,” she chided them.
“It’s so interesting,” Messner smiled at her, then returned to the doctor. “The husband seems then to have had a not very savory70 reputation in San Francisco?”
“On the contrary, he was a moral prig,” Haythorne blurted71 out, with apparently72 undue73 warmth. “He was a little scholastic74 shrimp75 without a drop of red blood in his body.”
“Did you know him?”
“Never laid eyes on him. I never knocked about in university circles.”
“One side of the shield again,” Messner said, with an air of weighing the matter judicially77. “While he did not amount to much, it is true—that is, physically—I’d hardly say he was as bad as all that. He did take an active interest in student athletics78. And he had some talent. He once wrote a Nativity play that brought him quite a bit of local appreciation. I have heard, also, that he was slated79 for the head of the English department, only the affair happened and he resigned and went away. It quite broke his career, or so it seemed. At any rate, on our side the shield, it was considered a knock-out blow to him. It was thought he cared a great deal for his wife.”
Haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted80 uninterestedly and lighted his pipe.
“It was fortunate they had no children,” Messner continued.
But Haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and mittens81.
“I’m going out to get some wood,” he said. “Then I can take off my moccasins and he comfortable.”
The door slammed behind him. For a long minute there was silence. The man continued in the same position on the bed. The woman sat on the grub-box, facing him.
“What are you going to do?” she asked abruptly82.
Messner looked at her with lazy indecision. “What do you think I ought to do? Nothing scenic83, I hope. You see I am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful.”
She gnawed84 her lower lip and fumed85 dumbly.
“But—” she began vehemently86, then clenched87 her hands and stopped.
“I hope you don’t want me to kill Mr.—er—Haythorne,” he said gently, almost pleadingly. “It would be most distressing88, and, I assure you, really it is unnecessary.”
“But you must do something,” she cried.
“On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do anything.”
“You would stay here?”
He nodded.
She glanced desperately89 around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk. “Night is coming on. You can’t stop here. You can’t! I tell you, you simply can’t!”
“Of course I can. I might remind you that I found this cabin first and that you are my guests.”
Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk.
“Then we’ll have to go,” she announced decisively.
“Impossible. You have a dry, hacking cough—the sort Mr.—er—Haythorne so aptly described. You’ve already slightly chilled your lungs. Besides, he is a physician and knows. He would never permit it.”
“Then what are you going to do?” she demanded again, with a tense, quiet utterance that boded90 an outbreak.
Messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal91, what of the profundity92 of pity and patience with which he contrived93 to suffuse94 it.
“My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don’t know. I really haven’t thought about it.”
“Oh! You drive me mad!” She sprang to her feet, wringing95 her hands in impotent wrath96. “You never used to be this way.”
“I used to be all softness and gentleness,” he nodded concurrence97. “Was that why you left me?”
“You are so different, so dreadfully calm. You frighten me. I feel you have something terrible planned all the while. But whatever you do, don’t do anything rash. Don’t get excited—”
“I don’t get excited any more,” he interrupted. “Not since you went away.”
“You have improved—remarkably,” she retorted.
He smiled acknowledgment. “While I am thinking about what I shall do, I’ll tell you what you will have to do—tell Mr.—er—Haythorne who I am. It may make our stay in this cabin more—may I say, sociable98?”
“Why have you followed me into this frightful99 country?” she asked irrelevantly100.
“Don’t think I came here looking for you, Theresa. Your vanity shall not be tickled101 by any such misapprehension. Our meeting is wholly fortuitous. I broke with the life academic and I had to go somewhere. To be honest, I came into the Klondike because I thought it the place you were least liable to be in.”
There was a fumbling at the latch102, then the door swung in and Haythorne entered with an armful of firewood. At the first warning, Theresa began casually to clear away the dishes. Haythorne went out again after more wood.
“Why didn’t you introduce us?” Messner queried103.
“I’ll tell him,” she replied, with a toss of her head. “Don’t think I’m afraid.”
“I never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything.”
“And I’m not afraid of confession104, either,” she said, with softening105 face and voice.
“In your case, I fear, confession is exploitation by indirection, profit-making by ruse106, self-aggrandizement at the expense of God.”
“Don’t be literary,” she pouted107, with growing tenderness. “I never did like epigrammatic discussion. Besides, I’m not afraid to ask you to forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Theresa. I really should thank you. True, at first I suffered; and then, with all the graciousness of spring, it dawned upon me that I was happy, very happy. It was a most amazing discovery.”
“But what if I should return to you?” she asked.
“I should” (he looked at her whimsically), “be greatly perturbed108.”
“I am your wife. You know you have never got a divorce.”
“I see,” he meditated109. “I have been careless. It will be one of the first things I attend to.”
She came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm. “You don’t want me, John?” Her voice was soft and caressing110, her hand rested like a lure111. “If I told you I had made a mistake? If I told you that I was very unhappy?—and I am. And I did make a mistake.”
Fear began to grow on Messner. He felt himself wilting112 under the lightly laid hand. The situation was slipping away from him, all his beautiful calmness was going. She looked at him with melting eyes, and he, too, seemed all dew and melting. He felt himself on the edge of an abyss, powerless to withstand the force that was drawing him over.
“I am coming back to you, John. I am coming back to-day . . . now.”
As in a nightmare, he strove under the hand. While she talked, he seemed to hear, rippling113 softly, the song of the Lorelei. It was as though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual notes were impinging on his ear-drums.
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, thrust her from him as her arms attempted to clasp him, and retreated backward to the door. He was in a panic.
“I’ll do something desperate!” he cried.
“I warned you not to get excited.” She laughed mockingly, and went about washing the dishes. “Nobody wants you. I was just playing with you. I am happier where I am.”
But Messner did not believe. He remembered her facility in changing front. She had changed front now. It was exploitation by indirection. She was not happy with the other man. She had discovered her mistake. The flame of his ego114 flared115 up at the thought. She wanted to come back to him, which was the one thing he did not want. Unwittingly, his hand rattled116 the door-latch.
“Don’t run away,” she laughed. “I won’t bite you.”
“I am not running away,” he replied with child-like defiance117, at the same time pulling on his mittens. “I’m only going to get some water.”
He gathered the empty pails and cooking pots together and opened the door. He looked back at her.
“Don’t forget you’re to tell Mr.—er—Haythorne who I am.”
Messner broke the skin that had formed on the water-hole within the hour, and filled his pails. But he did not return immediately to the cabin. Leaving the pails standing118 in the trail, he walked up and down, rapidly, to keep from freezing, for the frost bit into the flesh like fire. His beard was white with his frozen breath when the perplexed119 and frowning brows relaxed and decision came into his face. He had made up his mind to his course of action, and his frigid120 lips and cheeks crackled into a chuckle121 over it. The pails were already skinned over with young ice when he picked them up and made for the cabin.
When he entered he found the other man waiting, standing near the stove, a certain stiff awkwardness and indecision in his manner. Messner set down his water-pails.
“Glad to meet you, Graham Womble,” he said in conventional tones, as though acknowledging an introduction.
Messner did not offer his hand. Womble stirred uneasily, feeling for the other the hatred122 one is prone123 to feel for one he has wronged.
“And so you’re the chap,” Messner said in marvelling124 accents. “Well, well. You see, I really am glad to meet you. I have been—er—curious to know what Theresa found in you—where, I may say, the attraction lay. Well, well.”
And he looked the other up and down as a man would look a horse up and down.
“I know how you must feel about me,” Womble began.
“Don’t mention it,” Messner broke in with exaggerated cordiality of voice and manner. “Never mind that. What I want to know is how do you find her? Up to expectations? Has she worn well? Life been all a happy dream ever since?”
“Don’t be silly,” Theresa interjected.
“I can’t help being natural,” Messner complained.
“You can be expedient125 at the same time, and practical,” Womble said sharply. “What we want to know is what are you going to do?”
Messner made a well-feigned gesture of helplessness. “I really don’t know. It is one of those impossible situations against which there can be no provision.”
“All three of us cannot remain the night in this cabin.”
Messner nodded affirmation.
“Then somebody must get out.”
“That also is incontrovertible,” Messner agreed. “When three bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, one must get out.”
“And you’re that one,” Womble announced grimly. “It’s a ten-mile pull to the next camp, but you can make it all right.”
“And that’s the first flaw in your reasoning,” the other objected. “Why, necessarily, should I be the one to get out? I found this cabin first.”
“But Tess can’t get out,” Womble explained. “Her lungs are already slightly chilled.”
“I agree with you. She can’t venture ten miles of frost. By all means she must remain.”
“Then it is as I said,” Womble announced with finality.
Messner cleared his throat. “Your lungs are all right, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but what of it?”
Again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking126 and judicial76 slowness. “Why, I may say, nothing of it, except, ah, according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your getting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles. You can make it all right.”
Womble looked with quick suspicion at Theresa and caught in her eyes a glint of pleased surprise.
“Well?” he demanded of her.
She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face. He turned upon Messner.
“Enough of this. You can’t stop here.”
“Yes, I can.”
“I won’t let you.” Womble squared his shoulders. “I’m running things.”
“I’ll stay anyway,” the other persisted.
“I’ll put you out.”
“I’ll come back.”
Womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself. Then he spoke slowly, in a low, tense voice.
“Look here, Messner, if you refuse to get out, I’ll thrash you. This isn’t California. I’ll beat you to a jelly with my two fists.”
Messner shrugged127 his shoulders. “If you do, I’ll call a miners’ meeting and see you strung up to the nearest tree. As you said, this is not California. They’re a simple folk, these miners, and all I’ll have to do will be to show them the marks of the beating, tell them the truth about you, and present my claim for my wife.”
The woman attempted to speak, but Womble turned upon her fiercely.
“You keep out of this,” he cried.
In marked contrast was Messner’s “Please don’t intrude128, Theresa.”
What of her anger and pent feelings, her lungs were irritated into the dry, hacking cough, and with blood-suffused face and one hand clenched against her chest, she waited for the paroxysm to pass.
Womble looked gloomily at her, noting her cough.
“Something must be done,” he said. “Yet her lungs can’t stand the exposure. She can’t travel till the temperature rises. And I’m not going to give her up.”
Messner hemmed129, cleared his throat, and hemmed again, semi-apologetically, and said, “I need some money.”
Contempt showed instantly in Womble’s face. At last, beneath him in vileness130, had the other sunk himself.
“You’ve got a fat sack of dust,” Messner went on. “I saw you unload it from the sled.”
“How much do you want?” Womble demanded, with a contempt in his voice equal to that in his face.
“I made an estimate of the sack, and I—ah—should say it weighed about twenty pounds. What do you say we call it four thousand?”
“But it’s all I’ve got, man!” Womble cried out.
“You’ve got her,” the other said soothingly131. “She must be worth it. Think what I’m giving up. Surely it is a reasonable price.”
“All right.” Womble rushed across the floor to the gold-sack. “Can’t put this deal through too quick for me, you—you little worm!”
“Now, there you err,” was the smiling rejoinder. “As a matter of ethics132 isn’t the man who gives a bribe133 as bad as the man who takes a bribe? The receiver is as bad as the thief, you know; and you needn’t console yourself with any fictitious134 moral superiority concerning this little deal.”
“To hell with your ethics!” the other burst out. “Come here and watch the weighing of this dust. I might cheat you.”
And the woman, leaning against the bunk, raging and impotent, watched herself weighed out in yellow dust and nuggets in the scales erected135 on the grub-box. The scales were small, making necessary many weighings, and Messner with precise care verified each weighing.
“There’s too much silver in it,” he remarked as he tied up the gold-sack. “I don’t think it will run quite sixteen to the ounce. You got a trifle the better of me, Womble.”
He handled the sack lovingly, and with due appreciation of its preciousness carried it out to his sled.
Returning, he gathered his pots and pans together, packed his grub-box, and rolled up his bed. When the sled was lashed64 and the complaining dogs harnessed, he returned into the cabin for his mittens.
“Good-by, Tess,” he said, standing at the open door.
She turned on him, struggling for speech but too frantic136 to word the passion that burned in her.
“Good-by, Tess,” he repeated gently.
“Beast!” she managed to articulate.
She turned and tottered137 to the bunk, flinging herself face down upon it, sobbing: “You beasts! You beasts!”
John Messner closed the door softly behind him, and, as he started the dogs, looked back at the cabin with a great relief in his face. At the bottom of the bank, beside the water-hole, he halted the sled. He worked the sack of gold out between the lashings and carried it to the water-hole. Already a new skin of ice had formed. This he broke with his fist. Untying138 the knotted mouth with his teeth, he emptied the contents of the sack into the water. The river was shallow at that point, and two feet beneath the surface he could see the bottom dull-yellow in the fading light. At the sight of it, he spat139 into the hole.
He started the dogs along the Yukon trail. Whining spiritlessly, they were reluctant to work. Clinging to the gee-pole with his right band and with his left rubbing cheeks and nose, he stumbled over the rope as the dogs swung on a bend.
“Mush-on, you poor, sore-footed brutes!” he cried. “That’s it, mush-on!”
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mittened
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| v.（使）变得潮湿，变得湿润( moisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
bucking
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| v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的现在分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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8
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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20
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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21
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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22
muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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23
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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29
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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37
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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39
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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40
yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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41
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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44
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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45
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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47
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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49
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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50
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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51
primitiveness
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| 原始，原始性 | |
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52
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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53
sloughs
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| n.沼泽( slough的名词复数 )；苦难的深渊；难以改变的不良心情；斯劳(Slough)v.使蜕下或脱落( slough的第三人称单数 )；舍弃；除掉；摒弃 | |
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54
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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55
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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56
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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57
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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58
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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59
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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60
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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61
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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62
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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63
prospector
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| n.探矿者 | |
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64
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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65
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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66
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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67
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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68
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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69
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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70
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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71
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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73
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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74
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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75
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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76
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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77
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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78
athletics
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| n.运动，体育，田径运动 | |
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79
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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81
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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82
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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83
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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84
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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85
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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86
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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87
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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89
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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90
boded
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| v.预示，预告，预言( bode的过去式和过去分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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91
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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92
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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93
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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94
suffuse
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| v.(色彩等)弥漫，染遍 | |
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95
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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96
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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97
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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98
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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99
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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100
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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101
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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102
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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103
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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104
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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105
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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106
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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107
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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110
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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111
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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112
wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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113
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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114
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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115
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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116
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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117
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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118
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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119
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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120
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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121
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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122
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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127
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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128
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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133
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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135
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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136
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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137
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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138
untying
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| untie的现在分词 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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