_ CHAPTER XIV
Hugging the grateful warmth of an expiring camp fire, the figures of two stalwart men lay stretched out on the hard, frozen ground, bundled up in heavy army blankets. The mercury was forty-five below zero and still falling, but they did not appear to mind. Gaunt and hollow-eyed, enfeebled from long fasting, they had succumbed at last to utter physical exhaustion, and fallen into a sound and merciful sleep.
All Nature slept with them. The distant howling of wolves and the occasional scream of an eagle only served to intensify the universal stillness. The sepulchral silence of the Far North enveloped everything like an invisible mantle. Away to the east, the first gray mists of approaching daylight were creeping over the jagged mountain tops. The cold was intense. The snow was so deep in spots that the entire landscape was obliterated; only the trees, marvellously festooned with lace-like icicles, and a few huge, fire-scarred rocks which here and there thrust their jagged points above the surface, remained of the desolate marsh and forest land. Everywhere, as far as the eye could carry, was a trackless waste of snow drift.
The men lay motionless; only by their deep, rhythmical breathing could one know that they were alive. Dead to the world, they were as insensible to the cutting wind which, with the force of a half-gale, swept over the icy plains, sending the last flickering embers of their fire up in a cloud of flying sparks, as they were to the pain in their fever-racked bodies.
It was lucky they were still able to make a fire. The flames gave them warmth and kept the wolves at bay. But for that and the occasional small game they had been able to shoot, they would have perished long ago, and then the gold-fever would have claimed two victims more. For days and days they had tramped aimlessly through that wild region, prospecting for the yellow metal, until, footsore and weary, nature at last gave way. They had lost their bearings and could go no farther. Miles away from the nearest human habitation, they were face to face with death from starvation. Then the weather changed; it suddenly grew very cold; before they knew it, the blizzard was upon them. The suffering had been terrible, the obstacles inconceivable, yet they never faltered. A goal lay before them, and they pushed right on, determined to attain it. The prospector for gold plays for heavy stakes--a fortune or his life. Never willing to acknowledge defeat, undeterred by continual, heart-breaking disappointment, still he pushes on. Spurred by the irresistible lure of gold, there is no place so dangerous or so difficult of access that he will not penetrate to it. In winter he perishes of cold, in summer he is overcome by the heat, yet no matter. Nothing short of death itself can stop him in his determined, insensate quest for wealth.
It grew gradually lighter. The sky was overcast and threatening. A light snow began to fall. One of the men shivered and opened his eyes. Looking stupidly about him, with a long-drawn-out yawn, first at the dying fire, then at his still unconscious mate, he jumped up with a shout. At first he was too dazed with sleep to stand straight, and his teeth chattered from the cold. He was also ravenously hungry. But first they must think of the fire. That must be kept up at all costs. He was so weak that he staggered, and his clothes hung from him in rags; but shambling over to where his companion lay, he shook him roughly:
"Hello, Jim--hello, there! The d----d fire is almost out. Quick, man!"
Thus unceremoniously aroused from his trance-like slumber, John Madison, or what remained of him, lifted his head and painfully raised himself on one elbow. He was a pitiable-looking object. His hair, all dishevelled and matted, hung down over haggard-looking eyes; his cheeks were hollow from hunger, his ghastly pale face, livid from the cold, was covered with several weeks' growth of beard. From head to foot he was filthy and neglected from lack of the necessaries of life, and there was in his staring eyes a haunted, terrified look--the look of a man who has been face to face with death and yet lived to tell the tale. His remaining rags barely covered his emaciated, trembling frame. Shoes had gone long ago. His bleeding, frost-bitten feet were partly protected with coarse sacking tied with string. No one could have recognized in this human derelict the strapping specimen of proud manhood who six weeks before had said good-by to Laura and started out light-heartedly to conquer the world. Instead, the world had conquered him.
Throwing off the blanket, he staggered to his feet. He felt sick and dizzy. Once he reeled and nearly fell. Twenty hours without food takes the backbone out of any man, and it was as bad as that, with no prospect of anything better. Weakly he stooped, and gathering up a little snow, put it in his mouth. Then his face winced with pain. The hunger pangs were there again. Stamping the ground and exercising his arms vigorously for a few moments, to get his blood in circulation, he turned, and, stooping down again to his couch, drew from under the roll of blanket that had served him for a pillow, a formidable-looking Colt six-shooter and a girl's photograph. The Colt he slipped between his rags; the picture he pressed to his lips.
"God bless you, little one!" he murmured.
His companion, who was busy bending over the fire, trying to coax it back to life, happened to look up.
"Say, young feller!" he bellowed. "Cut out that mush, and lend a hand with this fire. Get some wood, and plenty--quick!"
Madison made no retort. He was too weak to care. Besides, Bill was right. He had no business to think only of himself when they were both making a last stand for life itself. Hastily gathering an armful of small twigs, he threw them on the fire. As he watched the flames leap up, his mate still grumbled:
"This ain't no time for foolin'. I should think yer'd try to get us out of this mess, instead of wastin' time mooning-over that picture."
Madison stooped over the fire and warmed his frozen hands. Shivering, he said:
"Bill--you don't know--how can you know?--what that picture means to me. It's all that's left to me. I never expect to see her again. I guess we'll both leave our carcasses here for the vultures to feed on. I can't go on much longer like this without food or shelter. I'm almost ready to cash in myself."
The other doggedly bit on a piece of ice and said nothing. Madison continued:
"If I gave up three square meals a day and a comfortable bed to come out here and die in this infernal hole, it was only for her sake. We were to get married soon. I promised to go back with a fortune, and she said she'd wait for me----"
The figure crouching on the other side of the fire chuckled grimly:
"Wait for you, eh?" he echoed dubiously.
"Yes, wait for me--why not?" snapped John.
The other shook his head.
"She may and she may not. It depends on the gal. Where is she?"
"New York."
"Working?"
"Yes--in a fashion. She's an actress."
"Oh!"
Bill gave another derisive chuckle. Irritated, John demanded hotly:
"What's the matter?"
"Queer lot--actresses!" grinned Bill. "Never knew no good of 'em."
John's eyes flashed dangerously, and weak though he was, he sprang up and put his hand to his hip. Before he drew his gun, his mate apologized.
"No offense, pard. I didn't mean no harm. I guess if she's your gal, she's all right. No offense."
Madison, mollified, sat down again. Warmly he said:
"Ah, Bill--you don't know--you don't know. She means everything to me. I'd sooner cut my throat than think her false for one instant. Why--she'd wait for me if it took years. I know her; you don't. She's the best girl in the world."
Bill nodded. Sententiously he said:
"That's the right line o' talk, I guess, for a feller wot's in love, but it's not goin' to help us find the trail. We've got to get on and find something to eat. Jist at present, wittles is more to the point than spooning."
Bill Branigan was an original. An Irish-American, he was earning good wages in one of the Chicago stockyards when the gold rush to Alaska began. Attacked like many others with the get-rich-quick fever, he went to the Yukon, and later found his way to Goldfield, Nevada, where he met Madison. The two men were instantly attracted to each other. Superb specimens of hardy manhood, both were ambitious, fearless, thirsty for adventure. Bill proposed a partnership--a risk-all, divide-all agreement. His other scheme having failed, Madison was glad enough to accept the offer. So with renewed hope and determination, both men turned their faces to the setting sun, and wandered across the mountain ranges, looking for gold. A loquacious Indian, after being generously dosed with "firewater," had told them of a lonely unknown place in the wilderness, where the ground was literally strewn with gold. Nuggets as big as a man's fist, he said, could be found by merely scratching the surface of the soil. They swallowed the yarn with the necessary grain of salt; but in the gold region, where so many miracles have happened, nothing is deemed impossible. The wildest romance receives credence. Vast fortunes had been made over night on clues no less preposterous. Anyhow, it was worth investigating. So, quietly, almost stealthily, taking no one into their confidence, they started North.
After days of strenuous tramping and effort, climbing hills, fording streams, cutting through impenetrable brushwood, they finally reached the region of which the Indian had given a fairly accurate description. Nearly two hundred miles from the nearest camp, on the top of a mountain plateau, the country was as wild and desolate as it is possible to imagine. Probably no white man had ever set foot there before. Soon their supplies ran low, and as they advanced further into the wilderness, and game grew scarcer, it became more difficult to find food. In addition to hunger, they suffered severely from the cold, and the jagged rocks tearing their boots made them footsore.
Of gold they had seen a few traces, but the ore was not present in such quantities as to encourage them to believe they had stumbled across another El Dorado, or even to make it worth their while to stake out a claim. Branigan, disappointed, was in favor of going back. The Indian was lying, he said. There was danger of getting lost in the mountains. The severe winter storms were about due. Prudence counselled caution. John took an opposite view. They had picked up several lumps of quartz streaked with yellow. If gold was there in minute particles, he argued, it was there also in larger quantities. The only thing was to have patience, to go on prospecting, and ferret out the hiding-place where jealous Nature secreted her treasures.
So they had struggled on, hoping against hope, thinking they would soon come across a trapper's hut, fighting for mere existence each inch of the way, becoming more bewildered and demoralized as they realized the gravity of their plight, advancing further and further into the merciless desert, literally stumbling into the jaws of death. Then came the snow, and the faint Indian trails were completely obliterated. This put the climax on their misery. Now there was no knowing where they were. Having no compass, they were hopelessly lost. In clear weather it was possible to find the right direction by the stars, but the sky, long-overcast and menacing, vouchsafed no sign. Even if the road could be found, escape was impossible. Starved and footsore, they were now so weak that they were scarcely able to drag themselves along. Yet move they must; to remain in one spot meant to fall down and go to sleep and perish. They had had nothing to eat for days except snow and some roots which Bill dug up from under the snow. Once they were attacked by wolves. Madison shot one of their pursuers with his revolver, and the rest of the pack turned tail and ran. The dead wolf they ate. They did not stop to cook it, but devoured it raw, like famished dogs worrying a bone. It saved their lives for a time, and then the hunger pangs began again, terrible, incessant.
The freshly stacked fire send clouds of smoke skywards, and its crimson glow, casting a vivid light on the two men crouching close by, made their abject figures stand out with startling distinctness against the gray background of the snow-clad landscape. Madison, who had long been silent, staring stolidly into the flames, listening absent-mindedly to his companion's arguments, at last broke in:
"Gold! I'm sick of gold--sick of the very word. I'd give all the gold there is in the world just to see Laura once again. That's all I'd ask--to see her just once. Then I'd be willing to die in peace. She has no idea of this. Do you think they'll ever know? Maybe some one will find our bodies."
Bill made no answer. He was paying no attention. His mind was too weak to grasp what was said. He had only one thought--one fixed thought--and that was--gold. Pointing off in the distance, where a mass of moss-covered rock rose like some gigantic vessel in an ocean of snow, he said in a thick, uncertain voice:
"John, my boy, I had a dream last night. I dreamt I tried some of them high spots yonder. I struck the rock with my pick, and suddenly I was dazzled. Wet flakes of shining gold stared up at me from the quartz. I struck again, and there was more gold. I pulled the moss from it, and everywhere there was gold. I struck right and left, and a perfect shower of nuggets as big as my head rolled at my feet. Then I woke up."
"Yes," said John sarcastically, "then you woke up."
Bill nodded stupidly.
"I know it was only a dream," he said, "but somehow I can't get the gold out of my head. I've a notion to go and try them rocks. You might try in the other direction."
John shrugged his shoulders.
"Won't do any harm as I know of," he said wearily. "Go and try. I'll stay here a while and nurse my frost bites. When I'm rested I'll go and try my luck."
His mate rose, and taking his pick, the weight of which was almost too much for his strength, said cheerily:
"If I find anything, I'll holler," he said.
"I guess you won't holler," replied his comrade, with a wan smile.
When his mate had disappeared, Madison remained sitting by the fire, staring meditatively into its red depths. He was not thinking of gold just then, but of a golden-haired girl who was thousands of miles away, little dreaming of the unexpected fate that had befallen him. He wondered what Laura was doing, if she was happy and successful. She had written in rather discouraging tone, saying it seemed impossible to find the right kind of engagement, but of course that was long ago, at the beginning of the season. Letters took so long to come from New York. By this time she must have found something she liked, and in which she could do herself justice. He did not like to see her on the stage. It was an artificial, unhealthy life. He had intended, when they were married, taking her away from her former surroundings for good. It would not be necessary for her to earn her living. He could have made enough for both.
When they were married! What cruel irony that sounded now. Perhaps she would never hear of his fate. Inquiries would be made at Goldfield and search parties might be sent to scour the brush, but it would be too late. They would find only their dead bodies, picked clean by the birds of prey. How happy he might have been. After all his many years, he at last had found a girl who really cared for him, a girl who was willing to give up everything for his sake, a girl whose firmness of character he could not help but respect.
What had he cared what her past had been? The very fact that she had been willing to abandon her luxurious way of living, and endure comparative poverty for his sake, was proof enough of her sincerity. He had hoped she would not have to make a sacrifice long. One day he thought he would make a lucky "strike" and go back laden with gold, which he would pour into her lap. How delighted and surprised she would have been. He would have given her a fine house, automobiles, beautiful gowns, precious jewels, everything money can buy. Nothing would have been too good to reward her weary months of waiting. And now----
Rising wearily to his feet, he threw some more wood on the fire, and then snatching up a short steel pick, proceeded in the direction opposite to that taken by Branigan. He soon reached the foothills, and began work scraping the moss-covered rocks, striking deep into boulders, turning over the soil, his eye watchful for a glimpse of glittering gold particles.
He toiled for a couple of hours, till his hands were blistered and his muscles ached. There was no sign of his companion. He hollered several times at the top of his voice, but receiving no response, he concluded that Bill, in his prospecting, had wandered farther away than he intended. There was no reason for uneasiness. If he did not return soon, he would go in search of him. As he toiled on mechanically, he pondered:
Even if they were lucky and got out of this plight, it would be years before he was on his feet again. He would not be able to support himself, let alone a wife. It might be months, years before his luck turned again. Would she wait?
Suddenly his brow darkened. He clenched his fist, and the veins on his temple swelled up like whipcord. Had she waited? He remembered Bill's scoffing words. Could it be true of Laura? Was she false to him? The possibility of such a thing had never entered his head before, but now he was tortured with the agonies and doubts of insensate, unreasoning jealousy. Maybe she had found it harder than she anticipated. Compelled to economize, deprived of luxuries that had become necessities, perhaps she had repented her bargain and gone back to that scoundrel Brockton. Possibly at that very moment she was in the broker's arms. The thought was maddening. A cold sweat broke out all over him at the very thought of it What would he do if he found her false? What would he do if he found his happiness destroyed, the future a hopeless blank, his faith in womankind forever shattered. There was only one thing to be done. Stern justice--the swift, savage justice of the cold, desolate, blizzard-swept plains. He would shoot them both, and himself afterward.
He ceased working, the pick fell from his nerveless hands. The hunger pains were gnawing at his vitals. He felt dizzy and sick. A death chill invaded his entire being. It suddenly grew dark; there was a buzzing in his ears. His knees gave way beneath him. He stumbled and fell. He was still conscious, but he knew he was very ill--if only he could call Branigan.
Suddenly his ear caught an unfamiliar sound. Instinctively, ill as he was, he started up. It was the sound of human voices. With difficulty he raised himself on one elbow. A party of hunters and Indians were coming in his direction. Some were carrying a stretcher formed with rifles and the branches of trees.
"Gold! Gold!" they shouted wildly, as they ran toward him.
Half a dozen trappers crowded round John's prostrate form. On the stretcher lay Bill Branigan, asleep. The leader of the party, a big, muscular chap, with a great blond beard, pushed a whiskey flask between Madison's clenched teeth.
"Poor devil!" he exclaimed. "We're just in time. He was about all in." Addressing Madison, who, with eyes starting from his head, stared up at the newcomers with amazement, as if they were phantoms from another world, he said:
"We picked your mate up yonder in the mountains. He's found the biggest gold nugget ever found in this section. There's gold everywhere."
"Damn the gold! Give me some food!" gasped Madison.
Then he fainted. _