The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
on his tongue; his throat was paralyzed; the crumbs crowded themselves
from the corners of his lips. He tried with limber fingers to stuff them
down, or to assist the muscular action of swallowing, but finally
expelled them in a cloud. Mort drew the parka hood over his partner's
head, for the wind cut like a scythe and the dogs were turning tail to
it, digging holes in the snow for protection. The air about them was
like yeast; the light was fading.
The Indian snow-shoed his way back, advising a quick camp until the
storm abated, but to this suggestion Grant refused to listen, knowing
only too well the peril of such a course. Nor did he dare take Johnny on
the sled, since the fellow was half asleep already, but instead whipped
up the dogs and urged his companion to follow as best he could.
When Cantwell fell, for a second time, he returned, dragged him forward,
and tied his wrists firmly, yet loosely, to the load.
The storm was pouring over them now, like water out of a spout; it
seared and blinded them; its touch was like that of a flame.
Nevertheless they struggled on into the smother, making what headway
they could. The Indian led, pulling at the end of a rope; Grant strained
at the sled and hoarsely encouraged the dogs; Cantwell stumbled and
lurched in the rear like an unwilling prisoner. When he fell his
companion lifted him, then beat him, cursed him, tried in every way to
rouse him from his lethargy.
After an interminable time they found they were descending and this gave
them heart to plunge ahead more rapidly. The dogs began to trot as the
sled overran them; they rushed blindly into gullies, fetching up at the
bottom in a tangle, and Johnny followed in a nerveless, stupefied
condition. He was dragged like a sack of flour, for his legs were limp
and he lacked muscular control, but every dash, every fall, every quick
descent drove the sluggish blood through his veins and cleared his brain
momentarily. Such moments were fleeting, however; much of the time his
mind was a blank, and it was only by a mechanical effort that he fought
off unconsciousness.
He had vague memories of many beatings at Mort's hands, of the slippery
clean-swept ice of a stream over which he limply skidded, of being
carried into a tent where a candle flickered and a stove roared. Grant
was holding something hot to his lips, and then--
It was morning. He was weak and sick; he felt as if he had awakened from
a hideous dream. "I played out, didn't I?" he queried, wonderingly.
"You sure did," Grant laughed. "It was a tight squeak, old boy. I never
thought I'd get you through."
"Played out! I--can't understand it." Cantwell prided himself on his
strength and stamina, therefore the truth was unbelievable. He and Mort
had long been partners, they had given and taken much at each other's
hands, but this was something altogether different. Grant had saved his
life, at risk of his own; the older man's endurance had been the greater
and he had used it to good advantage. It embarrassed Johnny tremendously
to realize that he had proven unequal to his share of the work, for he
had never before experienced such an obligation. He apologized
repeatedly during the few days he lay sick, and meanwhile Mort waited
upon him like a mother.
Cantwell was relieved when at last they had abandoned camp, changed
guides at the next village, and were on their way along the coast, for
somehow he felt very sensitive about his collapse. He was, in fact,
extremely ashamed of himself.
Once he had fully recovered he had no further trouble, but soon rounded
into fit condition and showed no effects of his ordeal. Day after day he
and Mort traveled through the solitudes, their isolation broken only by
occasional glimpses of native villages, where they rested briefly and
renewed their supply of dog-feed.
But although the younger man was now as well and strong as ever, he was
uncomfortably conscious that his trail-mate regarded him as the weaker
of the two and shielded him in many ways. Grant performed most of the
unpleasant tasks, and occasionally cautioned Johnny about overdoing.
This protective attitude at first amused, then offended Cantwell; it
galled him until he was upon the point of voicing his resentment, but
reflected that he had no right to object, for, judging by past
performances, he had proved his inferiority. This uncomfortable
realization forever arose to prevent open rebellion, but he asserted
himself secretly by robbing Grant of his self-appointed tasks. He rose
first in the mornings, he did the cooking, he lengthened his turns ahead
of the dogs, he mended harness after the day's hike had ended. Of course
the older man objected, and for a time they had a good-natured rivalry
as to who should work and who should rest--only it was not quite so
good-natured on Cantwell's part as he made it appear.
Mort broke out in friendly irritation one day: "Don't try to do
everything, Johnny. Remember I'm no cripple."
"Humph! You proved that. I guess it's up to me to do your work."
"Oh, forget that day on the pass, can't you?"
Johnny grunted a second time, and from his tone it was evident that he
would never forget, unpleasant though the memory remained. Sensing his
sullen resentment, the other tried to rally him, but made a bad job of
it. The humor of men in the open is not delicate; their wit and their
words become coarsened in direct proportion as they revert to the
primitive; it is one effect of the solitudes.
Grant spoke extravagantly, mockingly, of his own superiority in a way
which ordinarily would have brought a smile to Cantwell's lips, but the
latter did not smile. He taunted Johnny humorously on his lack of
physical prowess, his lack of good looks and manly qualities--something
which had never failed to result in a friendly exchange of badinage; he
even teased him about his defeat with the Katmai girl.
Cantwell did respond finally, but afterward he found himself wondering
if Mort could have been in earnest. He dismissed the thought with some
impatience. But men on the trail have too much time for their thoughts;
there is nothing in the monotonous routine of the day's work to distract
them, so the partner who had played out dwelt more and more upon his
debt and upon his friend's easy assumption of pre-eminence. The weight
of obligation began to chafe him, lightly at first, but with
ever-increasing discomfort. He began to think that Grant honestly
considered himself the better man, merely because chance had played into
his hands.
It was silly, even childish, to dwell on the subject, he reflected, and
yet he could not banish it from his mind. It was always before him, in
one form or another. He felt the strength in his lean muscles, and
sneered at the thought that Mort should be deceived. If it came to a
physical test he felt sure he could break his slighter partner with his
bare hands, and as for endurance--well, he was hungry for a chance to
demonstrate it.
They talked little; men seldom converse in the wastes, for there is
something about the silence of the wilderness which discourages speech.
And no land is so grimly silent, so hushed and soundless, as the frozen
North. For days they marched through desolation, without glimpse of
human habitation, without sight of track or trail, without sound of a
human voice to break the monotony. There was no game in the country,
with the exception of an occasional bird or rabbit, nothing but the
white hills, the fringe of alder-tops along the watercourses, and the
thickets of gnarled, unhealthy spruce in the smothered valleys.
Their destination was a mysterious stream at the headwaters of the
unmapped Kuskokwim, where rumor said there was gold, and whither they
feared other men were hastening from the mining country far to the
north.
Now it is a penalty of the White Country that men shall think of women.
The open life brings health and vigor, strength and animal vitality, and
these clamor for play. The cold of the still, clear days is no more
biting than the fierce memories and appetites which charge through the
brain at night. Passions intensify with imprisonment, recollections come
to life, longings grow vivid and wild. Thoughts change to realities, the
past creeps close, and dream figures are filled with blood and fire. One
remembers pleasures and excesses, women's smiles, women's kisses, the
invitation of outstretched arms. Wasted opportunities mock at one.
Cantwell began to brood upon the Katmai girl, for she was the last; her
eyes were haunting and distance had worked its usual enchantment. He
reflected that Mort had shouldered him aside and won her favor, then
boasted of it. Johnny awoke one night with a dream of her, and lay
quivering.
"Hell! She was only a squaw," he said, half aloud. "If I'd really
tried--"
Grant lay beside him, snoring, the heat of their bodies intermingled.
The waking man tried to compose himself, but his partner's stertorous
breathing irritated him beyond measure; for a long time he remained
motionless, staring into the gray blur of the tent-top. He had played
out. He owed his life to the man who had cheated him of the Katmai girl,
and that man knew it. He had become a weak, helpless thing, dependent
upon another's strength, and that other now accepted his superiority as
a matter of course. The obligation was insufferable, and--it was unjust.
The North had played him a devilish trick, it had betrayed him, it had
bound him to his benefactor with chains of gratitude which were irksome.
Had they been real chains they could have galled him no more than at
this moment.
As time passed the men spoke less frequently to each other. Grant joshed
his mate roughly, once or twice, masking beneath an assumption of
jocularity his own vague irritation at the change that had come over
them. It was as if he had probed at an open wound with clumsy fingers.
Cantwell had by this time assumed most of those petty camp tasks which
provoke tired trailers, those humdrum duties which are so trying to
exhausted nerves, and of course they wore upon him as they wear upon
every man. But, once he had taken them over, he began to resent Grant's
easy relinquishment; it rankled him to realize how willingly the other
allowed him to do the cooking, the dish-washing, the fire-building, the
bed-making. Little monotonies of this kind form the hardest part of
winter travel, they are the rocks upon which friendships founder and
partnerships are wrecked. Out on the trail, nature equalizes the work to
a great extent, and no man can shirk unduly, but in camp, inside the
cramped confines of a tent pitched on boughs laid over the snow, it is
very different. There one must busy himself while the other rests and
keeps his legs out of the way if possible. One man sits on the bedding
at the rear of the shelter, and shivers, while the other squats over a
tantalizing fire of green wood, blistering his face and parboiling his
limbs inside his sweaty clothing. Dishes must be passed, food divided,
and it is poor food, poorly prepared at best. Sometimes men criticize
and voice longings for better grub and better cooking. Remarks of this
kind have been known to result in tragedies, bitter words and flaming
curses--then, perhaps, wild actions, memories of which the later years
can never erase.
It is but one prank of the wilderness, one grim manifestation of its
silent forces.
Had Grant been unable to do his part Cantwell would have willingly
accepted the added burden, but Mort was able, he was nimble and "handy,"
he was the better cook of the two; in fact, he was the better man in
every way--or so he believed. Cantwell sneered at the last thought, and
the memory of his debt was like bitter medicine.
His resentment--in reality nothing more than a phase of insanity begot