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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 39. The Last Bivouac |
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_ CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. THE LAST BIVOUAC Shortening days and shortening distances in and out of the wild ravine, where the water ran trickling merrily along in the brief sunny hours, but froze hard again at night. Every halting-place was more difficult to reach than the last, and climbing up the slippery sides of the stream bed was as often the means of progression as the simple tramp. The sledge grew more difficult to draw, though its weight was really less and less: but in a mechanical way all joined hands in getting it over masses of rock, or through cracks where at times it became wedged in fast. For it could not be left behind, loaded as it was with the links which held them to life. And at last the brief day came to an end, when the shortest journey of all had been made, little more than a mile along the narrow rift with its often perpendicular sides, where the greater part of the way had been one constant climb over the rock-burdened bed of the stream, whose sources were somewhere in the icy region, apparently as far away as when they started on their journey. They had halted in a narrow amphitheatre of rocks, on one side of which lay a shelf dotted with dwarf pines, thick, sturdy, and old, many having shed their last needles years before, and displaying nothing now but thin bare trunks and a few jagged, weather-worn boughs. Snow had fallen heavily in the mountains during the previous night, and the side of the amphitheatre at the back of the shelf to which they had dragged the sledge was glazed with ice, where the snow above had melted in the warm mid-day rays, and _frozen_ again and again. It was bitter winter all around as the short day began to close in; but there was plenty of wood, and they felt if they climbed higher next day it would be into the region of wiry heaths and moss. Quite instinctively, axe in hand, each of the weary three made for the dead wood and began to cut and break down the brittle boughs. "Ay, that's right, my sons," said Tregelly, with the ghost of a smile; "let's have a good fire if it is to be the last." The smile was reflected in Dallas's face, and he nodded; but he did not speak--only went on hacking away in a mechanical fashion, and the small wood was heaped-up against the icy wall at the back of the broad shelf. Then a match was struck and sheltered till the smallest twigs caught; these communicated with the larger, and in a very short time there was a roaring fire, whose heat was reflected from the glazed surface of the rock, making the snow melt all around and run off till there was dry bare rock, on one piece of which, full in the warm glow, Scruff curled-up and went to sleep. Outside the snow lay deep and high, as it had been drifted in the heavy fall, forming a good shelter from the wind; and by a liberal use of their axes the dwarf firs that they cut down proved a good shelter when laid in a curve on the other side, while when no longer wanted for that purpose they would be free from the clinging snow and more fit to burn. Roof there was none save the frosty sky, spangled with myriads of stars; but the weary party paid no heed to that want. There was the fire, and in due time the tin of hot tea to pass round, and the roughly made bread. They seemed to want no more, only to lie down and rest in the warmth shed by the crackling wood--to take a long, long rest, and wake-- where? The question was silently asked by each of his inner self again and again, but never answered, for no answer seemed to be needed. The weary, weary day two years long was at an end. They had worked well and failed; they could do no more; all they wanted was rest and forgetfulness--peace, the true gold after all. Sleep was long coming to Dallas, weary though he was; and he lay there with his head slightly raised, gazing at the weird scene, distorted and full of strange shadows, as the fire rose and fell. There lay, big and heavy, the sturdy friend and companion in so many adventures, just as he had lain down; and close by, poor Abel, the most unfortunate of the party, so near that he could rest his hand upon the rough coat of the dog. "Poor Bel!" mused Dallas; "how unfortunate he has been!" But the next minute he was thinking of how trivial the troubles of the past seemed to be in comparison with this--the greatest trouble of them all. For though they had all lain down to sleep so calmly, and with the simple friendly good-night, they had all felt that it was for the last time, and that their weary labours were at an end. "All a mistake--a vain empty dream of a golden fortune," Dallas said to himself. "The idea was brave and strong, but it was the romance of a boy. Fortunes are not to be made by one stroke, but by patient, hard work, long thought as to how that work shall bring forth fruit, and then by constant application. Ah, well, we are not the first to make such mistakes--not the first to turn our backs upon the simple substance to grasp at the great shadow." He lay gazing sadly at the crackling fire, whose flames danced, and whose sparks eddied into spirals and flew upwards on the heated air; and then with eyes half-closed he watched the glowing embers as the great pieces of wood became incandescent. He was still gazing into the fire with a dull feeling of pitying contempt for himself, seeing imaginary caverns and ravines of burnished gold, when with a sigh upon his lip as he thought of the simple-hearted, loving mother watching and waiting at home for those who would never cross the threshold again, sleep came to press heavily upon the half-closed eyelids, and all was blank. _ |
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