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To Win or to Die: A Tale of the Klondike Gold Craze, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 24. Abel's Night Alarm |
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_ CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. ABEL'S NIGHT ALARM "It's no good, Bel," said Dallas one day; "I can't go begging round again. It's not fair to the men. I must go down to the town and bring back as much as I can." "Very well," said Abel. "When do you start?" "To-morrow morning." "So soon? Well, if it has to be done, the sooner the better." "I can get back within four or five days, I believe, and I'll ask Tregelly to come in once or twice to see you, so that you will not be so lonely." "You need not do that, because I shall not be here," said Abel quietly. "Not be here?" "Of course not. I shall be with you." "Impossible." "No, I shall manage to limp along somehow." "Impossible, I tell you!" cried Dallas. "You must stay to take care of the claim; and then there is the gold--and the dog." Abel was silenced; and the next morning, taking his empty sledge, and trusting to obtain enough food at the shanties which he would pass on the track, Dallas started. Abel watched him pass away into the gloom of the dark morning, and then turned and limped back sadly to where the dog lay dozing by the fire, apparently still too weak to stir. Abel's bed had been drawn aside, and there was a hole in the ground, while upon the upturned barrel which formed their table stood a little leather bag half full of scales, scraps, and nuggets of gold--that which remained after Dallas had taken out a sufficiency to purchase stores at the town on the Yukon. Abel's first act was to stoop down, mend the fire, and pat the dog, which responded by rapping the earth with his tail. Then the leather bag was tied up, replaced in the bank hole, which was then filled up, the earth beaten down flat, and the sacks and skins which formed the bed drawn back into their places. He stooped down and patted the dog. "Pah! Why don't you lie farther from the fire? You make the hut smell horribly with your burnt hair." The dog only whined, opened one eye, blinked at him, and went off to sleep again. "Poor old chap!" mused Abel. "I didn't think I could care so much for such a great, rough, ugly brute as you are; but adversity makes strange friends." Abel finished that day wondering how Dallas was getting on, and trying to picture his journey through the snow by the side of the ice-bound stream; grew more melancholy from his lonely position, and then tried to rouse himself by being practical and planning. He made up his mind to content himself with one good, hearty meal a day, so as to make the provisions last out well, in case Dallas should not be back to time, and only to be extravagant with the fuel. Lastly, he went to the door and looked out, to find that it was a clear, frosty night, with the brilliant stars peering down. He knew it was night, for no fires were to be seen in any direction, and, after making all as snug as he could, he rolled himself in his blankets, drew the skin bag up about him, and followed his dumb companion's example, sleeping till morning, when the logs were just smouldering and had to be coaxed into a good warm blaze again. And so the days and nights glided by. He would awake again to find the fire burning low, the dog still sleeping, and the horror of another dreary day to pass. For his foot seemed no better, his spirits were lower than ever, and at last it was long past the time when Dallas should have returned. How the days passed then he never afterwards could quite recall, for it was like a continuous nightmare. But in a mechanical way he kept up the fire, with the wood piled in one corner by the door getting so low that he knew he must bestir himself soon, and get to the stack by the shaft, knock and brush off the snow, and bring in more to thaw in the warmth of the hut. All in a strange, dreamy way he sat and watched, cooked a large pot of skilly, and shared it with the still drowsy dog, which took its portion and curled-up again, after whining softly and licking his hand. One night all seemed over. No one had been near, and he had felt too weak and weary to limp to the nearest hut in search of human companionship. He was alone in his misery and despair. Dallas must be dead, he felt sure, and there was nothing for him to do now but make another good meal for himself and the dog, and then sleep. "Sleep," he said aloud, "and perhaps wake no more." He ate his hot meal once more and watched the dog take his portion before going to the door, to look out feebly and find all black, depressing darkness; not even a star to be seen. "Night, night, black night!" he muttered as he carefully fastened up again, pegged the blankets across to keep out the cruel wind, carefully piled up the pieces of wood about the fire, as an afterthought carried out with a smile, with a big log that would smoulder far on into the next day for the sake of the dog. "For I shall not want it," he said sadly. "Poor brute! What will he do when I'm dead?" The thought startled him, and he sat down and fixed his eyes upon the shaggy, hairy animal curled-up close to the fire, whose flames flickered and danced and played about, making the hair glisten and throwing the dog's shadow back in a curious grotesque way. Something like energy ran in a thrill through the watcher, and he shuddered and felt that he must do something to prevent _that_--it would be too horrible. It was in a nightmare-like state he seemed to see people coming to the door at last. He could even hear them knocking and shouting, and at last using hatchets to crash a way in. For what? To find the dog there alive and stronger, ready to resent their coming, even to fighting and driving them away; but only to return, rifle or pistol armed, to destroy the brute for what it had done according to its nature, to keep itself alive. And then, it seemed to Abel, in his waking dream, they shudderingly gathered together what they saw to cast into the ready-dug grave--the shaft in which he and Dallas had so laboriously but hopefully delved, in search of the magnet which had drawn them there--the gold. He made a wild effort to drive away the horrible fancy, and at last with a weary sigh sank upon his bed, his last thought being: "Would those at home ever know the whole truth?" "How long have I been awake?" It must have been one long stupor of many, many hours, for the fire was very low, shedding merely a soft warm glow through the place. He was stupefied, and felt unable to move, but the fancy upon which he had fallen asleep was there still in a strange confused way, and he felt that the dog was not in the spot where he had left it. He lay with his eyes half-closed, conscious now of some sound which had awakened him. For there beyond the glowing embers, where all was made indistinct and strange, the dog was hard at work tearing a way out of the hut. The wood snapped and grated as it was torn away; then there was silence, and he was half disposed as he lay there helpless to think it was all a dream. But as this fancy came the noise began once more, and at last he caught sight of the great dog, strong and sturdy now, crawling through a hole it had made into the hut--what for he could not make out in his feverish state. Why should it have done this to get at him when already there? He knew it was all wrong, and that his brain was touched; but one thing was plain reality: There was the great beast, magnified by the light of the fire, creeping forward while he lay paralysed and unable to stir. _ |
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