The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
fair dealing and just to show that there ain't no animus behind his
action, gives the coffin to the man who had claimed it. What's more, he
helps to lay him out with his own hands. Naturally this is considered
conduct handsome enough for any country. In an hour the man is buried
and the poker game is open again. The trader apologizes to the boys for
the delay, saying:
"'The box is mine, all right, and I'm sorry this play come up, but
the late lamented was so set on having that piece of bric-à-brac
that it seemed a shame not to give it to him.'"
At this point the narrator fell silent, much to my surprise, for
throughout this weird recital I had sat spellbound, forgetful of the
hour, the storm outside, and the snoring men in the bunkroom. When he
had gone thus far he began with a bewildering change of topic.
"Did you ever hear how Dawson Sam cut the ears off a bank dealer?"
"Hold on!" said I. "What's the rest of this story? What became of
Manard?"
"Oh, he's there yet, for all I know," said the stranger as he shuffled
the cards. "His folks wouldn't send no more money, the steamboat agent
at Nome had done his share, and the trader at Chinik said he wasn't
responsible."
"And you? Didn't you get your one hundred and fifty dollars?"
"No. You see, it was a C. O. D. shipment. I wake up along about noon,
put my head under the pump, and then look up the trader. He is still
playing stud.
"'Where's my casket?' says I. 'I've got my dead man, but I don't collect
on him till he's crated and f. o. b.' The trader has an ace in the hole
and two kings in sight, so he says over his shoulder:
"'I'm sorry, old man, but while you was asleep a tenderfoot jumped your
coffin.' Now, this Dawson Sam has a crooked bank dealer named--"
"I think I'll go back to bed," said I.
THE WEIGHT OF OBLIGATION
This is the story of a burden, the tale of a load that irked a strong
man's shoulders. To those who do not know the North it may seem strange,
but to those who understand the humors of men in solitude, and the
extravagant vagaries that steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts with
the night, it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in the
wilderness, eerie forces which play pranks; some droll or whimsical,
others grim.
Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, trail-mates, brothers
in soul if not in blood. The ebb and flood of frontier life had brought
them together, its hardships had united them until they were as one.
They were something of a mystery to each other, neither having
surrendered all his confidence, and because of this they retained their
mutual attraction. Had they known each other fully, had they thoroughly
sounded each other's depths, they would have lost interest, just like
husbands and wives who give themselves too freely and reserve nothing.
They had met by accident, but they remained together by desire, and so
satisfactory was the union that not even the jealousy of women had come
between them. There had been women, of course, just as there had been
adventures of other sorts, but the love of the partners was larger and
finer than anything else they had experienced. It was so true and fine
and unselfish, in fact, that either would have smilingly relinquished
the woman of his desires had the other wished to possess her. They were
young, strong men, and the world was full of sweethearts, but where was
there a partnership like theirs, they asked themselves.
The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, too, and it led
them into curious byways. It was this which sent them northward from the
States in the dead of winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; it
was this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of Illiamna,
whither their land journey should have commenced.
"There are two routes over the coast range," the captain of the _Dora_
told them, "and only two. Illiamna Pass is low and easy, but the
distance is longer than by way of Katmai. I can land you at either
place."
"Katmai is pretty tough, isn't it?" Grant inquired.
"We've understood it's the worst pass in Alaska." Cantwell's eyes were
eager.
"It's a heller! Nobody travels it except natives, and they don't like
it. Now, Illiamna--"
"We'll try Katmai. Eh, Mort?"
"Sure! They don't come hard enough for us, Cap. We'll see if it's as bad
as it's painted."
So, one gray January morning they were landed on a frozen beach, their
outfit was flung ashore through the surf, the life-boat pulled away, and
the _Dora_ disappeared after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their last
glimpse of her showed the captain waving good-by and the purser flapping
a red table-cloth at them from the after-deck.
"Cheerful place, this," Grant remarked, as he noted the desolate
surroundings of dune and hillside.
The beach itself was black and raw where the surf washed it, but
elsewhere all was white, save for the thickets of alder and willow which
protruded nakedly. The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out of
the Alaskan range; along the foot-hills behind there was a belt of
spruce and cottonwood and birch. It was a lonely and apparently
unpeopled wilderness in which they had been set down.
"Seems good to be back in the North again, doesn't it?" said Cantwell,
cheerily. "I'm tired of the booze, and the street-cars, and the dames,
and all that civilized stuff. I'd rather be broke in Alaska--with
you--than a banker's son, back home."
Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai trader, appeared among
the dunes, and with him were some native villagers. That night the
partners slept in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained down
with old ships' cables. Petellin, the fat little trader, explained that
roofs in Katmai had a way of sailing off to seaward when the wind blew.
He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and nodded.
It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were foolish to try it,
when the Illiamna route was open. Still, now that they were here, he
would find dogs for them, and a guide. The village hunters were out
after meat, however, and until they returned the white men would need to
wait in patience.
There followed several days of idleness, during which Cantwell and Grant
amused themselves around the village, teasing the squaws, playing games
with the boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of whom, in
particular, was not unattractive. She was perhaps three-quarters Aleut,
the other quarter being plain coquette, and, having been educated at the
town of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the white man.
Cantwell approached her, and she met his extravagant advances more than
half-way. They were getting along nicely together when Grant, in a
spirit of fun, entered the game and won her fickle smiles for himself.
He joked his partner unmercifully, and Johnny accepted defeat
gracefully, never giving the matter a second thought.
When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a guide was hired, and, a
week after landing, the friends were camped at timber-line awaiting a
favorable moment for their dash across the range. Above them white
hillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in the saw-toothed barrier
which formed the pass; below them a short valley led down to Katmai and
the sea. The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the guide
had stared up at the peaks for a time he shook his head, then re-entered
the tent and lay down. The mountains were "smoking"; from their tops
streamed a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be drifting
snow-clouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but they were patient.
They were up and going on the following morning, however, with the
Indian in the lead. There was no trail; the hills were steep; in places
they were forced to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means of
ropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. It lay like loose
sand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of the sled in a feathery mass; the
dogs wallowed in it and were unable to pull, hence the greater part of
the work devolved upon the men. Once above the foot-hills and into the
range proper, the going became more level, but the snow remained
knee-deep.
The Indian broke trail stolidly; the partners strained at the sled,
which hung back like a leaden thing. By afternoon the dogs had become
disheartened and refused to heed the whip. There was neither fuel nor
running water, and therefore the party did not pause for luncheon. The
men were sweating profusely from their exertions and had long since
become parched with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and scoured
their throats.
Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his unusual exertions, for
not only had he assumed a lion's share of the work, but the last few
months of easy living had softened his muscles, and in consequence his
vitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were drenched; he was
fearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst seemed to penetrate his whole
body; he was forced to rest frequently.
Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, "Feel bad, Johnny?"
Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men economical of language.
"What's the matter?"
"Thirsty!" The former could barely speak.
"There won't be any water till we get across. You'll have to stand it."
They resumed their duties; the Indian "swish-swished" ahead, as if
wading through a sea of swan's-down; the dogs followed listlessly; the
partners leaned against the stubborn load.
A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing Grant and the
guide to study the sky anxiously. Cantwell was too weary to heed the
increasing cold. The snow on the slopes above began to move; here and
there, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs; the clean-cut
outlines of the hills became obscured as by a fog; the languid wind bit
cruelly.
After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and exclaimed: "I'm--all in,
Mort. Don't seem to have the--guts." He was pale, his eyes were
tortured. He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his lips,
then spat it out, still dry.
"Here! Brace up!" In a panic of apprehension at this collapse Grant
shook him; he had never known Johnny to fail like this. "Take a drink of
booze; it'll do you good." He drew a bottle of brandy from one of the
dunnage bags and Cantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it would quench
his thirst, he thought. Before Mort could check him he had drunk a third
of the contents.
The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell's stomach was empty
and his tissues seemed to absorb the liquor like a dry sponge; his
fatigue fell away, he became suddenly strong and vigorous again. But
before he had gone a hundred yards the reaction followed. First his mind
grew thick, then his limbs became unmanageable and his muscles flabby.
He was drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxication, against
which he struggled desperately. He fought it for perhaps a quarter of a
mile before it mastered him; then he gave up.
Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on the trail, but they had
never stopped to reason why, and even now they did not attribute
Johnny's breakdown to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and fell,
then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he sprawled there
motionless until Mort dragged him to the sled. He stared at his partner
in perplexity and laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, darkness
was near, they had not yet reached the Bering slope.
Something in the drunken man's face frightened Grant and, extracting a
ship's biscuit from the grub-box, he said, hurriedly: "Here, Johnny. Get
something under your belt, quick."
Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but there was no moisture