The man who turns his back upon the comforts of an elder civilization, to face the savage10 youth, the primordial11 simplicity13 of the North, may estimate success at an inverse14 ratio to the quantity and quality of his hopelessly fixed15 habits. He will soon discover, if he be a fit candidate, that the material habits are the less important. The exchange of such things as a dainty menu for rough fare, of the stiff leather shoe for the soft, shapeless moccasin, of the feather bed for a couch in the snow, is after all a very easy matter. But his pinch will come in learning properly to shape his mind's attitude toward all things, and especially toward his fellow man. For the courtesies of ordinary life, he must substitute unselfishness, forbearance, and tolerance16. Thus, and thus only, can he gain that pearl of great price—true comradeship. He must not say 'thank you'; he must mean it without opening his mouth, and prove it by responding in kind. In short, he must substitute the deed for the word, the spirit for the letter.
When the world rang with the tale of Arctic gold, and the lure17 of the North gripped the heartstrings of men, Carter Weatherbee threw up his snug18 clerkship, turned the half of his savings19 over to his wife, and with the remainder bought an outfit20. There was no romance in his nature—the bondage21 of commerce had crushed all that; he was simply tired of the ceaseless grind, and wished to risk great hazards in view of corresponding returns. Like many another fool, disdaining22 the old trails used by the Northland pioneers for a score of years, he hurried to Edmonton in the spring of the year; and there, unluckily for his soul's welfare, he allied23 himself with a party of men.
There was nothing unusual about this party, except its plans. Even its goal, like that of all the other parties, was the Klondike. But the route it had mapped out to attain24 that goal took away the breath of the hardiest25 native, born and bred to the vicissitudes26 of the Northwest. Even Jacques Baptiste, born of a Chippewa woman and a renegade voyageur (having raised his first whimpers in a deerskin lodge27 north of the sixty-fifth parallel, and had the same hushed by blissful sucks of raw tallow), was surprised. Though he sold his services to them and agreed to travel even to the never-opening ice, he shook his head ominously28 whenever his advice was asked.
Percy Cuthfert's evil star must have been in the ascendant, for he, too, joined this company of argonauts. He was an ordinary man, with a bank account as deep as his culture, which is saying a good deal. He had no reason to embark29 on such a venture—no reason in the world save that he suffered from an abnormal development of sentimentality. He mistook this for the true spirit of romance and adventure. Many another man has done the like, and made as fatal a mistake.
The first break-up of spring found the party following the ice-run of Elk30 River. It was an imposing31 fleet, for the outfit was large, and they were accompanied by a disreputable contingent32 of half-breed voyageurs with their women and children. Day in and day out, they labored33 with the bateaux and canoes, fought mosquitoes and other kindred pests, or sweated and swore at the portages. Severe toil34 like this lays a man naked to the very roots of his soul, and ere Lake Athabasca was lost in the south, each member of the party had hoisted35 his true colors.
The two shirks and chronic36 grumblers were Carter Weatherbee and Percy Cuthfert. The whole party complained less of its aches and pains than did either of them. Not once did they volunteer for the thousand and one petty duties of the camp. A bucket of water to be brought, an extra armful of wood to be chopped, the dishes to be washed and wiped, a search to be made through the outfit for some suddenly indispensable article—and these two effete37 scions38 of civilization discovered sprains39 or blisters40 requiring instant attention.
They were the first to turn in at night, with score of tasks yet undone41; the last to turn out in the morning, when the start should be in readiness before the breakfast was begun.
They were the first to fall to at mealtime, the last to have a hand in the cooking; the first to dive for a slim delicacy42, the last to discover they had added to their own another man's share. If they toiled43 at the oars44, they slyly cut the water at each stroke and allowed the boat's momentum45 to float up the blade. They thought nobody noticed; but their comrades swore under their breaths and grew to hate them, while Jacques Baptiste sneered46 openly and damned them from morning till night. But Jacques Baptiste was no gentleman.
At the Great Slave, Hudson Bay dogs were purchased, and the fleet sank to the guards with its added burden of dried fish and pemican. Then canoe and bateau answered to the swift current of the Mackenzie, and they plunged47 into the Great Barren Ground. Every likely-looking 'feeder' was prospected48, but the elusive49 'pay-dirt' danced ever to the north. At the Great Bear, overcome by the common dread50 of the Unknown Lands, their voyageurs began to desert, and Fort of Good Hope saw the last and bravest bending to the towlines as they bucked51 the current down which they had so treacherously52 glided53.
Jacques Baptiste alone remained. Had he not sworn to travel even to the never-opening ice? The lying charts, compiled in main from hearsay54, were now constantly consulted.
And they felt the need of hurry, for the sun had already passed its northern solstice and was leading the winter south again. Skirting the shores of the bay, where the Mackenzie disembogues into the Arctic Ocean, they entered the mouth of the Little Peel River. Then began the arduous55 up-stream toil, and the two Incapables fared worse than ever. Towline and pole, paddle and tumpline, rapids and portages—such tortures served to give the one a deep disgust for great hazards, and printed for the other a fiery56 text on the true romance of adventure. One day they waxed mutinous58, and being vilely59 cursed by Jacques Baptiste, turned, as worms sometimes will. But the half-breed thrashed the twain, and sent them, bruised60 and bleeding, about their work. It was the first time either had been manhandled.
Abandoning their river craft at the headwaters of the Little Peel, they consumed the rest of the summer in the great portage over the Mackenzie watershed61 to the West Rat. This little stream fed the Porcupine62, which in turn joined the Yukon where that mighty63 highway of the North countermarches on the Arctic Circle.
But they had lost in the race with winter, and one day they tied their rafts to the thick eddy-ice and hurried their goods ashore64. That night the river jammed and broke several times; the following morning it had fallen asleep for good. 'We can't be more'n four hundred miles from the Yukon,' concluded Sloper, multiplying his thumb nails by the scale of the map. The council, in which the two Incapables had whined65 to excellent disadvantage, was drawing to a close.
'Hudson Bay Post, long time ago. No use um now.' Jacques Baptiste's father had made the trip for the Fur Company in the old days, incidentally marking the trail with a couple of frozen toes.
Sufferin' cracky!' cried another of the party. 'No whites?' 'Nary white,' Sloper sententiously affirmed; 'but it's only five hundred more up the Yukon to Dawson. Call it a rough thousand from here.' Weatherbee and Cuthfert groaned66 in chorus.
'How long'll that take, Baptiste?' The half-breed figured for a moment. 'Workum like hell, no man play out, ten—twenty—forty—fifty days. Um babies come' (designating the Incapables), 'no can tell. Mebbe when hell freeze over; mebbe not then.' The manufacture of snowshoes and moccasins ceased. Somebody called the name of an absent member, who came out of an ancient cabin at the edge of the campfire and joined them. The cabin was one of the many mysteries which lurk67 in the vast recesses68 of the North. Built when and by whom, no man could tell.
Two graves in the open, piled high with stones, perhaps contained the secret of those early wanderers. But whose hand had piled the stones? The moment had come. Jacques Baptiste paused in the fitting of a harness and pinned the struggling dog in the snow. The cook made mute protest for delay, threw a handful of bacon into a noisy pot of beans, then came to attention. Sloper rose to his feet. His body was a ludicrous contrast to the healthy physiques of the Incapables. Yellow and weak, fleeing from a South American fever-hole, he had not broken his flight across the zones, and was still able to toil with men. His weight was probably ninety pounds, with the heavy hunting knife thrown in, and his grizzled hair told of a prime which had ceased to be. The fresh young muscles of either Weatherbee or Cuthfert were equal to ten times the endeavor of his; yet he could walk them into the earth in a day's journey. And all this day he had whipped his stronger comrades into venturing a thousand miles of the stiffest hardship man can conceive. He was the incarnation of the unrest of his race, and the old Teutonic stubbornness, dashed with the quick grasp and action of the Yankee, held the flesh in the bondage of the spirit.
'All those in favor of going on with the dogs as soon as the ice sets, say ay.' 'Ay!' rang out eight voices—voices destined69 to string a trail of oaths along many a hundred miles of pain.
'Contrary minded?' 'No!' For the first time the Incapables were united without some compromise of personal interests.
'And what are you going to do about it?' Weatherbee added belligerently70.
'Majority rule! Majority rule!' clamored the rest of the party.
'I know the expedition is liable to fall through if you don't come,' Sloper replied sweetly; 'but I guess, if we try real hard, we can manage to do without you.
What do you say, boys?' The sentiment was cheered to the echo.
'But I say, you know,' Cuthfert ventured apprehensively71; 'what's a chap like me to do?'
'Ain't you coming with us.' 'No—o.' 'Then do as you damn well please. We won't have nothing to say.' 'Kind o' calkilate yuh might settle it with that canoodlin' pardner of yourn,' suggested a heavy-going Westerner from the Dakotas, at the same time pointing out Weatherbee. 'He'll be shore to ask yuh what yur a-goin' to do when it comes to cookin' an' gatherin' the wood.' 'Then we'll consider it all arranged,' concluded Sloper.
'We'll pull out tomorrow, if we camp within five miles—just to get everything in running order and remember if we've forgotten anything.' The sleds groaned by on their steel-shod runners, and the dogs strained low in the harnesses in which they were born to die.
Jacques Baptiste paused by the side of Sloper to get a last glimpse of the cabin. The smoke curled up pathetically from the Yukon stovepipe. The two Incapables were watching them from the doorway72.
Sloper laid his hand on the other's shoulder.
'Jacques Baptiste, did you ever hear of the Kilkenny cats?' The half-breed shook his head.
'Well, my friend and good comrade, the Kilkenny cats fought till neither hide, nor hair, nor yowl, was left. You understand?—till nothing was left. Very good.
Now, these two men don't like work. They'll be all alone in that cabin all winter—a mighty long, dark winter. Kilkenny cats—well?' The Frenchman in Baptiste shrugged74 his shoulders, but the Indian in him was silent. Nevertheless, it was an eloquent75 shrug73, pregnant with prophecy. Things prospered76 in the little cabin at first. The rough badinage77 of their comrades had made Weatherbee and Cuthfert conscious of the mutual78 responsibility which had devolved upon them; besides, there was not so much work after all for two healthy men. And the removal of the cruel whiphand, or in other words the bulldozing half-breed, had brought with it a joyous79 reaction. At first, each strove to outdo the other, and they performed petty tasks with an unction which would have opened the eyes of their comrades who were now wearing out bodies and souls on the Long Trail.
All care was banished80. The forest, which shouldered in upon them from three sides, was an inexhaustible woodyard. A few yards from their door slept the Porcupine, and a hole through its winter robe formed a bubbling spring of water, crystal clear and painfully cold. But they soon grew to find fault with even that. The hole would persist in freezing up, and thus gave them many a miserable81 hour of ice-chopping. The unknown builders of the cabin had extended the sidelogs so as to support a cache at the rear. In this was stored the bulk of the party's provisions.
Food there was, without stint82, for three times the men who were fated to live upon it. But the most of it was the kind which built up brawn83 and sinew, but did not tickle84 the palate.
True, there was sugar in plenty for two ordinary men; but these two were little else than children. They early discovered the virtues85 of hot water judiciously86 saturated87 with sugar, and they prodigally88 swam their flapjacks and soaked their crusts in the rich, white syrup89.
Then coffee and tea, and especially the dried fruits, made disastrous90 inroads upon it. The first words they had were over the sugar question. And it is a really serious thing when two men, wholly dependent upon each other for company, begin to quarrel.
Weatherbee loved to discourse91 blatantly92 on politics, while Cuthfert, who had been prone93 to clip his coupons94 and let the commonwealth95 jog on as best it might, either ignored the subject or delivered himself of startling epigrams. But the clerk was too obtuse96 to appreciate the clever shaping of thought, and this waste of ammunition97 irritated Cuthfert.
He had been used to blinding people by his brilliancy, and it worked him quite a hardship, this loss of an audience. He felt personally aggrieved98 and unconsciously held his muttonhead companion responsible for it.
Save existence, they had nothing in common—came in touch on no single point.
Weatherbee was a clerk who had known naught99 but clerking all his life; Cuthfert was a master of arts, a dabbler100 in oils, and had written not a little. The one was a lower-class man who considered himself a gentleman, and the other was a gentleman who knew himself to be such. From this it may be remarked that a man can be a gentleman without possessing the first instinct of true comradeship. The clerk was as sensuous101 as the other was aesthetic102, and his love adventures, told at great length and chiefly coined from his imagination, affected103 the supersensitive master of arts in the same way as so many whiffs of sewer104 gas. He deemed the clerk a filthy105, uncultured brute106, whose place was in the muck with the swine, and told him so; and he was reciprocally informed that he was a milk-and-water sissy and a cad. Weatherbee could not have defined 'cad' for his life; but it satisfied its purpose, which after all seems the main point in life.
Weatherbee flatted every third note and sang such songs as 'The Boston Burglar' and 'the Handsome Cabin Boy,' for hours at a time, while Cuthfert wept with rage, till he could stand it no longer and fled into the outer cold. But there was no escape. The intense frost could not be endured for long at a time, and the little cabin crowded them—beds, stove, table, and all—into a space of ten by twelve. The very presence of either became a personal affront107 to the other, and they lapsed108 into sullen109 silences which increased in length and strength as the days went by. Occasionally, the flash of an eye or the curl of a lip got the better of them, though they strove to wholly ignore each other during these mute periods.
And a great wonder sprang up in the breast of each, as to how God had ever come to create the other.
With little to do, time became an intolerable burden to them. This naturally made them still lazier. They sank into a physical lethargy which there was no escaping, and which made them rebel at the performance of the smallest chore. One morning when it was his turn to cook the common breakfast, Weatherbee rolled out of his blankets, and to the snoring of his companion, lighted first the slush lamp and then the fire. The kettles were frozen hard, and there was no water in the cabin with which to wash. But he did not mind that. Waiting for it to thaw110, he sliced the bacon and plunged into the hateful task of bread-making. Cuthfert had been slyly watching through his half-closed lids.
Consequently there was a scene, in which they fervently111 blessed each other, and agreed, henceforth, that each do his own cooking. A week later, Cuthfert neglected his morning ablutions, but none the less complacently113 ate the meal which he had cooked. Weatherbee grinned. After that the foolish custom of washing passed out of their lives.
As the sugar-pile and other little luxuries dwindled114, they began to be afraid they were not getting their proper shares, and in order that they might not be robbed, they fell to gorging115 themselves. The luxuries suffered in this gluttonous116 contest, as did also the men.
In the absence of fresh vegetables and exercise, their blood became impoverished117, and a loathsome118, purplish rash crept over their bodies. Yet they refused to heed119 the warning.
Next, their muscles and joints120 began to swell122, the flesh turning black, while their mouths, gums, and lips took on the color of rich cream. Instead of being drawn123 together by their misery124, each gloated over the other's symptoms as the scurvy125 took its course.
They lost all regard for personal appearance, and for that matter, common decency126. The cabin became a pigpen, and never once were the beds made or fresh pine boughs127 laid underneath128. Yet they could not keep to their blankets, as they would have wished; for the frost was inexorable, and the fire box consumed much fuel. The hair of their heads and faces grew long and shaggy, while their garments would have disgusted a ragpicker. But they did not care. They were sick, and there was no one to see; besides, it was very painful to move about.
To all this was added a new trouble—the Fear of the North. This Fear was the joint121 child of the Great Cold and the Great Silence, and was born in the darkness of December, when the sun dipped below the horizon for good. It affected them according to their natures.
Weatherbee fell prey129 to the grosser superstitions130, and did his best to resurrect the spirits which slept in the forgotten graves. It was a fascinating thing, and in his dreams they came to him from out of the cold, and snuggled into his blankets, and told him of their toils131 and troubles ere they died. He shrank away from the clammy contact as they drew closer and twined their frozen limbs about him, and when they whispered in his ear of things to come, the cabin rang with his frightened shrieks132. Cuthfert did not understand—for they no longer spoke—and when thus awakened133 he invariably grabbed for his revolver. Then he would sit up in bed, shivering nervously134, with the weapon trained on the unconscious dreamer. Cuthfert deemed the man going mad, and so came to fear for his life.
His own malady135 assumed a less concrete form. The mysterious artisan who had laid the cabin, log by log, had pegged136 a wind-vane to the ridgepole. Cuthfert noticed it always pointed137 south, and one day, irritated by its steadfastness138 of purpose, he turned it toward the east. He watched eagerly, but never a breath came by to disturb it. Then he turned the vane to the north, swearing never again to touch it till the wind did blow. But the air frightened him with its unearthly calm, and he often rose in the middle of the night to see if the vane had veered—ten degrees would have satisfied him. But no, it poised139 above him as unchangeable as fate.
His imagination ran riot, till it became to him a fetish. Sometimes he followed the path it pointed across the dismal140 dominions141, and allowed his soul to become saturated with the Fear. He dwelt upon the unseen and the unknown till the burden of eternity142 appeared to be crushing him. Everything in the Northland had that crushing effect—the absence of life and motion; the darkness; the infinite peace of the brooding land; the ghastly silence, which made the echo of each heartbeat a sacrilege; the solemn forest which seemed to guard an awful, inexpressible something, which neither word nor thought could compass.
The world he had so recently left, with its busy nations and great enterprises, seemed very far away. Recollections occasionally obtruded—recollections of marts and galleries and crowded thoroughfares, of evening dress and social functions, of good men and dear women he had known—but they were dim memories of a life he had lived long centuries agone, on some other planet. This phantasm was the Reality. Standing143 beneath the wind-vane, his eyes fixed on the polar skies, he could not bring himself to realize that the Southland really existed, that at that very moment it was a-roar with life and action.
There was no Southland, no men being born of women, no giving and taking in marriage.
Beyond his bleak144 skyline there stretched vast solitudes145, and beyond these still vaster solitudes.
There were no lands of sunshine, heavy with the perfume of flowers. Such things were only old dreams of paradise. The sunlands of the West and the spicelands of the East, the smiling Arcadias and blissful Islands of the Blest—ha! ha! His laughter split the void and shocked him with its unwonted sound. There was no sun.
This was the Universe, dead and cold and dark, and he its only citizen. Weatherbee? At such moments Weatherbee did not count. He was a Caliban, a monstrous146 phantom147, fettered148 to him for untold149 ages, the penalty of some forgotten crime.
He lived with Death among the dead, emasculated by the sense of his own insignificance150, crushed by the passive mastery of the slumbering151 ages. The magnitude of all things appalled152 him. Everything partook of the superlative save himself—the perfect cessation of wind and motion, the immensity of the snow-covered wildness, the height of the sky and the depth of the silence. That wind-vane—if it would only move. If a thunderbolt would fall, or the forest flare153 up in flame.
The rolling up of the heavens as a scroll154, the crash of Doom—anything, anything! But no, nothing moved; the Silence crowded in, and the Fear of the North laid icy fingers on his heart.
Once, like another Crusoe, by the edge of the river he came upon a track—the faint tracery of a snowshoe rabbit on the delicate snow-crust. It was a revelation.
There was life in the Northland. He would follow it, look upon it, gloat over it.
He forgot his swollen155 muscles, plunging156 through the deep snow in an ecstasy157 of anticipation158. The forest swallowed him up, and the brief midday twilight159 vanished; but he pursued his quest till exhausted160 nature asserted itself and laid him helpless in the snow.
There he groaned and cursed his folly161, and knew the track to be the fancy of his brain; and late that night he dragged himself into the cabin on hands and knees, his cheeks frozen and a strange numbness162 about his feet. Weatherbee grinned malevolently163, but made no offer to help him. He thrust needles into his toes and thawed164 them out by the stove. A week later mortification165 set in.
But the clerk had his own troubles. The dead men came out of their graves more frequently now, and rarely left him, waking or sleeping. He grew to wait and dread their coming, never passing the twin cairns without a shudder166. One night they came to him in his sleep and led him forth112 to an appointed task. Frightened into inarticulate horror, he awoke between the heaps of stones and fled wildly to the cabin. But he had lain there for some time, for his feet and cheeks were also frozen.
Sometimes he became frantic167 at their insistent168 presence, and danced about the cabin, cutting the empty air with an axe57, and smashing everything within reach.
During these ghostly encounters, Cuthfert huddled169 into his blankets and followed the madman about with a cocked revolver, ready to shoot him if he came too near.
But, recovering from one of these spells, the clerk noticed the weapon trained upon him.
His suspicions were aroused, and thenceforth he, too, lived in fear of his life. They watched each other closely after that, and faced about in startled fright whenever either passed behind the other's back. The apprehensiveness170 became a mania171 which controlled them even in their sleep. Through mutual fear they tacitly let the slush-lamp burn all night, and saw to a plentiful172 supply of bacon-grease before retiring. The slightest movement on the part of one was sufficient to arouse the other, and many a still watch their gazes countered as they shook beneath their blankets with fingers on the trigger-guards.
What with the Fear of the North, the mental strain, and the ravages173 of the disease, they lost all semblance174 of humanity, taking on the appearance of wild beasts, hunted and desperate. Their cheeks and noses, as an aftermath of the freezing, had turned black.
Their frozen toes had begun to drop away at the first and second joints. Every movement brought pain, but the fire box was insatiable, wringing175 a ransom176 of torture from their miserable bodies. Day in, day out, it demanded its food—a veritable pound of flesh—and they dragged themselves into the forest to chop wood on their knees. Once, crawling thus in search of dry sticks, unknown to each other they entered a thicket177 from opposite sides.
Suddenly, without warning, two peering death's-heads confronted each other. Suffering had so transformed them that recognition was impossible. They sprang to their feet, shrieking178 with terror, and dashed away on their mangled179 stumps180; and falling at the cabin's door, they clawed and scratched like demons181 till they discovered their mistake.
Occasionally they lapsed normal, and during one of these sane182 intervals183, the chief bone of contention184, the sugar, had been divided equally between them. They guarded their separate sacks, stored up in the cache, with jealous eyes; for there were but a few cupfuls left, and they were totally devoid185 of faith in each other.
But one day Cuthfert made a mistake. Hardly able to move, sick with pain, with his head swimming and eyes blinded, he crept into the cache, sugar canister in hand, and mistook Weatherbee's sack for his own.
January had been born but a few days when this occurred. The sun had some time since passed its lowest southern declination, and at meridian186 now threw flaunting187 streaks188 of yellow light upon the northern sky. On the day following his mistake with the sugar-bag, Cuthfert found himself feeling better, both in body and in spirit. As noontime drew near and the day brightened, he dragged himself outside to feast on the evanescent glow, which was to him an earnest of the sun's future intentions. Weatherbee was also feeling somewhat better, and crawled out beside him. They propped189 themselves in the snow beneath the moveless wind-vane, and waited.
The stillness of death was about them. In other climes, when nature falls into such moods, there is a subdued190 air of expectancy191, a waiting for some small voice to take up the broken strain. Not so in the North. The two men had lived seeming eons in this ghostly peace.
They could remember no song of the past; they could conjure192 no song of the future. This unearthly calm had always been—the tranquil193 silence of eternity.
Their eyes were fixed upon the north. Unseen, behind their backs, behind the towering mountains to the south, the sun swept toward the zenith of another sky than theirs. Sole spectators of the mighty canvas, they watched the false dawn slowly grow. A faint flame began to glow and smoulder. It deepened in intensity194, ringing the changes of reddish-yellow, purple, and saffron. So bright did it become that Cuthfert thought the sun must surely be behind it—a miracle, the sun rising in the north! Suddenly, without warning and without fading, the canvas was swept clean. There was no color in the sky. The light had gone out of the day.
They caught their breaths in half-sobs. But lo! the air was aglint with particles of scintillating195 frost, and there, to the north, the wind-vane lay in vague outline of the snow.
A shadow! A shadow! It was exactly midday. They jerked their heads hurriedly to the south. A golden rim12 peeped over the mountain's snowy shoulder, smiled upon them an instant, then dipped from sight again.
There were tears in their eyes as they sought each other. A strange softening196 came over them. They felt irresistibly197 drawn toward each other. The sun was coming back again. It would be with them tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.
And it would stay longer every visit, and a time would come when it would ride their heaven day and night, never once dropping below the skyline. There would be no night.
The ice-locked winter would be broken; the winds would blow and the forests answer; the land would bathe in the blessed sunshine, and life renew.
Hand in hand, they would quit this horrid198 dream and journey back to the Southland. They lurched blindly forward, and their hands met—their poor maimed hands, swollen and distorted beneath their mittens199.
But the promise was destined to remain unfulfilled. The Northland is the Northland, and men work out their souls by strange rules, which other men, who have not journeyed into far countries, cannot come to understand.
An hour later, Cuthfert put a pan of bread into the oven, and fell to speculating on what the surgeons could do with his feet when he got back. Home did not seem so very far away now. Weatherbee was rummaging200 in the cache. Of a sudden, he raised a whirlwind of blasphemy201, which in turn ceased with startling abruptness202. The other man had robbed his sugar-sack. Still, things might have happened differently, had not the two dead men come out from under the stones and hushed the hot words in his throat. They led him quite gently from the cache, which he forgot to close. That consummation was reached; that something they had whispered to him in his dreams was about to happen. They guided him gently, very gently, to the woodpile, where they put the axe in his hands.
Then they helped him shove open the cabin door, and he felt sure they shut it after him—at least he heard it slam and the latch203 fall sharply into place. And he knew they were waiting just without, waiting for him to do his task.
'Carter! I say, Carter!' Percy Cuthfert was frightened at the look on the clerk's face, and he made haste to put the table between them.
Carter Weatherbee followed, without haste and without enthusiasm. There was neither pity nor passion in his face, but rather the patient, stolid204 look of one who has certain work to do and goes about it methodically.
'I say, what's the matter?'
'I say, Carter, I say; let's talk. There's a good chap.' The master of arts was thinking rapidly, now, shaping a skillful flank movement on the bed where his Smith & Wesson lay. Keeping his eyes on the madman, he rolled backward on the bunk206, at the same time clutching the pistol.
'Carter!' The powder flashed full in Weatherbee's face, but he swung his weapon and leaped forward. The axe bit deeply at the base of the spine207, and Percy Cuthfert felt all consciousness of his lower limbs leave him. Then the clerk fell heavily upon him, clutching him by the throat with feeble fingers. The sharp bite of the axe had caused Cuthfert to drop the pistol, and as his lungs panted for release, he fumbled208 aimlessly for it among the blankets. Then he remembered. He slid a hand up the clerk's belt to the sheath-knife; and they drew very close to each other in that last clinch209.
Percy Cuthfert felt his strength leave him. The lower portion of his body was useless, The inert210 weight of Weatherbee crushed him—crushed him and pinned him there like a bear under a trap. The cabin became filled with a familiar odor, and he knew the bread to be burning. Yet what did it matter? He would never need it. And there were all of six cupfuls of sugar in the cache—if he had foreseen this he would not have been so saving the last several days. Would the wind-vane ever move? Why not' Had he not seen the sun today? He would go and see. No; it was impossible to move. He had not thought the clerk so heavy a man.
How quickly the cabin cooled! The fire must be out. The cold was forcing in.
It must be below zero already, and the ice creeping up the inside of the door. He could not see it, but his past experience enabled him to gauge211 its progress by the cabin's temperature. The lower hinge must be white ere now. Would the tale of this ever reach the world? How would his friends take it? They would read it over their coffee, most likely, and talk it over at the clubs. He could see them very clearly, 'Poor Old Cuthfert,' they murmured; 'not such a bad sort of a chap, after all.' He smiled at their eulogies212, and passed on in search of a Turkish bath. It was the same old crowd upon the streets.
Strange, they did not notice his moosehide moccasins and tattered213 German socks! He would take a cab. And after the bath a shave would not be bad. No; he would eat first.
Steak, and potatoes, and green things how fresh it all was! And what was that? Squares of honey, streaming liquid amber214! But why did they bring so much? Ha! ha! he could never eat it all.
Shine! Why certainly. He put his foot on the box. The bootblack looked curiously215 up at him, and he remembered his moosehide moccasins and went away hastily.
That was all—a mere singing. The ice must have passed the latch by now. More likely the upper hinge was covered. Between the moss-chinked roof-poles, little points of frost began to appear. How slowly they grew! No; not so slowly. There was a new one, and there another. Two—three—four; they were coming too fast to count. There were two growing together. And there, a third had joined them.
Why, there were no more spots. They had run together and formed a sheet.
Well, he would have company. If Gabriel ever broke the silence of the North, they would stand together, hand in hand, before the great White Throne. And God would judge them, God would judge them!
Then Percy Cuthfert closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep.
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1
protean
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| adj.反复无常的；变化自如的 | |
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2
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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3
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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4
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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5
chafe
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| v.擦伤；冲洗；惹怒 | |
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6
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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7
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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8
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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10
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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14
inverse
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| adj.相反的，倒转的，反转的；n.相反之物；v.倒转 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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16
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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17
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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18
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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19
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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20
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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21
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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22
disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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24
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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25
hardiest
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的最高级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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26
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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27
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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28
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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29
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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30
elk
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| n.麋鹿 | |
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31
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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32
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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33
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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34
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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35
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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38
scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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sprains
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| 扭伤( sprain的名词复数 ) | |
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40
blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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41
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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42
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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43
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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44
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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45
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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46
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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48
prospected
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| vi.勘探（prospect的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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49
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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50
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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51
bucked
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| adj.快v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的过去式和过去分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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52
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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53
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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54
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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55
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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56
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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57
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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58
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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59
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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60
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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61
watershed
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| n.转折点，分水岭，分界线 | |
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62
porcupine
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| n.豪猪， 箭猪 | |
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63
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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64
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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65
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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66
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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67
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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68
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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69
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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70
belligerently
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71
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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72
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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73
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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74
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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76
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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78
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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79
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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80
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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82
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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83
brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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84
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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85
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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86
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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87
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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88
prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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blatantly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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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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94
coupons
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| n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 )；优惠券；订货单；参赛表 | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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96
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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99
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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100
dabbler
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| n. 戏水者, 业余家, 半玩半认真做的人 | |
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101
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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102
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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103
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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104
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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105
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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106
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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107
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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108
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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109
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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110
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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111
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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112
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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113
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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114
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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116
gluttonous
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| adj.贪吃的，贪婪的 | |
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117
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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118
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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119
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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120
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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121
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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122
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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123
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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124
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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125
scurvy
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| adj.下流的，卑鄙的，无礼的；n.坏血病 | |
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126
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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127
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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128
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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129
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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130
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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131
toils
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| 网 | |
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132
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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134
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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135
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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136
pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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137
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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138
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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139
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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140
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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141
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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142
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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143
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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144
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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145
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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146
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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147
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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148
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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150
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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151
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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152
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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153
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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154
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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155
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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156
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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157
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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158
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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159
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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160
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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161
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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162
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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163
malevolently
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164
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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165
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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166
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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167
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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168
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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169
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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170
apprehensiveness
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| 忧虑感，领悟力 | |
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171
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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172
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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173
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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174
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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175
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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176
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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177
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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178
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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179
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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180
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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181
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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182
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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183
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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184
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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185
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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186
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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187
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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188
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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189
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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190
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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191
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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192
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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193
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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194
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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195
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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196
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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197
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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198
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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199
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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200
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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201
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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202
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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203
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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204
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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205
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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206
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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207
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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208
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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209
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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210
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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211
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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212
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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213
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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214
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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215
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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216
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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