by Jack London
CHAPTER III
Frona waved her hand to Andy and swung out on the trail. Fastenedtightly to her back were her camera and a small travelling satchel. Inaddition, she carried for alpenstock the willow pole of Neepoosa. Herdress was of the mountaineering sort, short-skirted and scant, allowingthe greatest play with the least material, and withal gray of color andmodest.
Her outfit, on the backs of a dozen Indians and in charge of DelBishop, had got under way hours before. The previous day, on herreturn with Matt McCarthy from the Siwash camp, she had found DelBishop at the store waiting her. His business was quickly transacted,for the proposition he made was terse and to the point. She was goinginto the country. He was intending to go in. She would need somebody.If she had not picked any one yet, why he was just the man. He hadforgotten to tell her the day he took her ashore that he had been inthe country years before and knew all about it. True, he hated thewater, and it was mainly a water journey; but he was not afraid of it.He was afraid of nothing. Further, he would fight for her at the dropof the hat. As for pay, when they got to Dawson, a good word from herto Jacob Welse, and a year's outfit would be his. No, no; nogrub-stake about it, no strings on him! He would pay for the outfitlater on when his sack was dusted. What did she think about it,anyway? And Frona did think about it, for ere she had finishedbreakfast he was out hustling the packers together.
She found herself making better speed than the majority of her fellows,who were heavily laden and had to rest their packs every few hundredyards. Yet she found herself hard put to keep the pace of a bunch ofScandinavians ahead of her. They were huge strapping blond-hairedgiants, each striding along with a hundred pounds on his back, and allharnessed to a go-cart which carried fully six hundred more. Theirfaces were as laughing suns, and the joy of life was in them. The toilseemed child's play and slipped from them lightly. They joked with oneanother, and with the passers-by, in a meaningless tongue, and theirgreat chests rumbled with cavern-echoing laughs. Men stood aside forthem, and looked after them enviously; for they took the rises of thetrail on the run, and rattled down the counter slopes, and ground theiron-rimmed wheels harshly over the rocks. Plunging through a darkstretch of woods, they came out upon the river at the ford. A drownedman lay on his back on the sand-bar, staring upward, unblinking, at thesun. A man, in irritated tones, was questioning over and over,"Where's his pardner? Ain't he got a pardner?" Two more men hadthrown off their packs and were coolly taking an inventory of the deadman's possessions. One called aloud the various articles, while theother checked them off on a piece of dirty wrapping-paper. Letters andreceipts, wet and pulpy, strewed the sand. A few gold coins wereheaped carelessly on a white handkerchief. Other men, crossing backand forth in canoes and skiffs, took no notice.
The Scandinavians glanced at the sight, and their faces sobered for amoment. "Where's his pardner? Ain't he got a pardner?" the irritatedman demanded of them. They shook their heads. They did not understandEnglish. They stepped into the water and splashed onward. Some onecalled warningly from the opposite bank, whereat they stood still andconferred together. Then they started on again. The two men takingthe inventory turned to watch. The current rose nigh to their hips,but it was swift and they staggered, while now and again the cartslipped sideways with the stream. The worst was over, and Frona foundherself holding her breath. The water had sunk to the knees of the twoforemost men, when a strap snapped on one nearest the cart. His packswung suddenly to the side, overbalancing him. At the same instant theman next to him slipped, and each jerked the other under. The next twowere whipped off their feet, while the cart, turning over, swept fromthe bottom of the ford into the deep water. The two men who had almostemerged threw themselves backward on the pull-ropes. The effort washeroic, but giants though they were, the task was too great and theywere dragged, inch by inch, downward and under.
Their packs held them to the bottom, save him whose strap had broken.This one struck out, not to the shore, but down the stream, striving tokeep up with his comrades. A couple of hundred feet below, the rapiddashed over a toothed-reef of rocks, and here, a minute later, theyappeared. The cart, still loaded, showed first, smashing a wheel andturning over and over into the next plunge. The men followed in amiserable tangle. They were beaten against the submerged rocks andswept on, all but one. Frona, in a canoe (a dozen canoes were alreadyin pursuit), saw him grip the rock with bleeding fingers. She saw hiswhite face and the agony of the effort; but his hold relaxed and he wasjerked away, just as his free comrade, swimming mightily, was reachingfor him. Hidden from sight, they took the next plunge, showing for asecond, still struggling, at the shallow foot of the rapid.
A canoe picked up the swimming man, but the rest disappeared in a longstretch of swift, deep water. For a quarter of an hour the canoesplied fruitlessly about, then found the dead men gently grounded in aneddy. A tow-rope was requisitioned from an up-coming boat, and a pairof horses from a pack-train on the bank, and the ghastly jetsam hauledashore. Frona looked at the five young giants lying in the mud,broken-boned, limp, uncaring. They were still harnessed to the cart,and the poor worthless packs still clung to their backs, The sixth satin the midst, dry-eyed and stunned. A dozen feet away the steady floodof life flowed by and Frona melted into it and went on.
The dark spruce-shrouded mountains drew close together in the DyeaCanyon, and the feet of men churned the wet sunless earth into mire andbog-hole. And when they had done this they sought new paths, tillthere were many paths. And on such a path Frona came upon a man spreadcarelessly in the mud. He lay on his side, legs apart and one armburied beneath him, pinned down by a bulky pack. His cheek waspillowed restfully in the ooze, and on his face there was an expressionof content. He brightened when he saw her, and his eyes twinkledcheerily.
"'Bout time you hove along," he greeted her. "Been waitin' an hour onyou as it is."
"That's it," as Frona bent over him. "Just unbuckle that strap. Thepesky thing! 'Twas just out o' my reach all the time."
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
He slipped out of his straps, shook himself, and felt the twisted arm."Nope. Sound as a dollar, thank you. And no kick to register,either." He reached over and wiped his muddy hands on a low-bowedspruce. "Just my luck; but I got a good rest, so what's the good ofmakin' a beef about it? You see, I tripped on that little root there,and slip! slump! slam! and slush!--there I was, down and out, and thebuckle just out o' reach. And there I lay for a blasted hour,everybody hitting the lower path."
"But why didn't you call out to them?"
"And make 'em climb up the hill to me? Them all tuckered out withtheir own work? Not on your life! Wasn't serious enough. If anyother man 'd make me climb up just because he'd slipped down, I'd takehim out o' the mud all right, all right, and punch and punch him backinto the mud again. Besides, I knew somebody was bound to come alongmy way after a while."
"Oh, you'll do!" she cried, appropriating Del Bishop's phrase. "You'lldo for this country!"
"Yep," he called back, shouldering his pack and starting off at alively clip. "And, anyway, I got a good rest."
The trail dipped through a precipitous morass to the river's brink. Aslender pine-tree spanned the screaming foam and bent midway to touchthe water. The surge beat upon the taper trunk and gave it arhythmical swaying motion, while the feet of the packers had wornsmooth its wave-washed surface. Eighty feet it stretched in ticklishinsecurity. Frona stepped upon it, felt it move beneath her, heard thebellowing of the water, saw the mad rush--and shrank back. She slippedthe knot of her shoe-laces and pretended great care in the tyingthereof as a bunch of Indians came out of the woods above and downthrough the mud. Three or four bucks led the way, followed by manysquaws, all bending in the head-straps to the heavy packs. Behind camethe children burdened according to their years, and in the rear half adozen dogs, tongues lagging out and dragging forward painfully undertheir several loads.
The men glanced at he
r sideways, and one of them said something in anundertone. Frona could not hear, but the snicker which went down theline brought the flush of shame to her brow and told her more forciblythan could the words. Her face was hot, for she sat disgraced in herown sight; but she gave no sign. The leader stood aside, and one byone, and never more than one at a time, they made the perilous passage.At the bend in the middle their weight forced the tree under, and theyfelt for their footing, up to the ankles in the cold, driving torrent.Even the little children made it without hesitancy, and then the dogswhining and reluctant but urged on by the man. When the last hadcrossed over, he turned to Frona.
"Um horse trail," he said, pointing up the mountain side. "Much betteryou take um horse trail. More far; much better."
But she shook her head and waited till he reached the farther bank; forshe felt the call, not only upon her own pride, but upon the pride ofher race; and it was a greater demand than her demand, just as the racewas greater than she. So she put foot upon the log, and, with the eyesof the alien people upon her, walked down into the foam-white swirl.
She came upon a man weeping by the side of the trail. His pack,clumsily strapped, sprawled on the ground. He had taken off a shoe,and one naked foot showed swollen and blistered.
"What is the matter?" she asked, halting before him.
He looked up at her, then down into the depths where the Dyea River cutthe gloomy darkness with its living silver. The tears still welled inhis eyes, and he sniffled.
"What is the matter?" she repeated. "Can I be of any help?"
"No," he replied. "How can you help? My feet are raw, and my back isnearly broken, and I am all tired out. Can you help any of thesethings?"
"Well," judiciously, "I am sure it might be worse. Think of the menwho have just landed on the beach. It will take them ten days or twoweeks to back-trip their outfits as far as you have already got yours."
"But my partners have left me and gone on," he moaned, a sneakingappeal for pity in his voice. "And I am all alone, and I don't feelable to move another step. And then think of my wife and babies. Ileft them down in the States. Oh, if they could only see me now! Ican't go back to them, and I can't go on. It's too much for me. Ican't stand it, this working like a horse. I was not made to work likea horse. I'll die, I know I will, if I do. Oh, what shall I do? Whatshall I do?"
"Why did your comrades leave you?"
"Because I was not so strong as they; because I could not pack as muchor as long. And they laughed at me and left me."
"Have you ever roughed it?" Frona asked.
"No."
"You look well put up and strong. Weigh probably one hundred andsixty-five?"
"One hundred-and seventy," he corrected.
"You don't look as though you had ever been troubled with sickness.Never an invalid?"
"N-no."
"And your comrades? They are miners?"
"Never mining in their lives. They worked in the same establishmentwith me. That's what makes it so hard, don't you see! We'd known oneanother for years! And to go off and leave me just because I couldn'tkeep up!"
"My friend," and Frona knew she was speaking for the race, "you arestrong as they. You can work just as hard as they; pack as much. Butyou are weak of heart. This is no place for the weak of heart. Youcannot work like a horse because you will not. Therefore the countryhas no use for you. The north wants strong men,--strong of soul, notbody. The body does not count. So go back to the States. We do notwant you here. If you come you will die, and what then of| your wifeand babies? So sell out your outfit and go back. You will be home inthree weeks. Good-by."
She passed through Sheep Camp. Somewhere above, a mighty glacier,under the pent pressure of a subterranean reservoir, had burst asunderand hurled a hundred thousand tons of ice and water down the rockygorge. The trail was yet slippery with the slime of the flood, and menwere rummaging disconsolately in the rubbish of overthrown tents andcaches. But here and there they worked with nervous haste, and thestark corpses by the trail-side attested dumbly to their labor. A fewhundred yards beyond, the work of the rush went on uninterrupted. Menrested their packs on jutting stones, swapped escapes whilst theyregained their breath, then stumbled on to their toil again.
The mid-day sun beat down upon the stone "Scales." The forest hadgiven up the struggle, and the dizzying heat recoiled from theunclothed rock. On either hand rose the ice-marred ribs of earth,naked and strenuous in their nakedness. Above towered storm-beatenChilcoot. Up its gaunt and ragged front crawled a slender string ofmen. But it was an endless string. It came out of the last fringe ofdwarfed shrub below, drew a black line across a dazzling stretch ofice, and filed past Frona where she ate her lunch by the way. And itwent on, up the pitch of the steep, growing fainter and smaller, tillit squirmed and twisted like a column of ants and vanished over thecrest of the pass.
Even as she looked, Chilcoot was wrapped in rolling mist and whirlingcloud, and a storm of sleet and wind roared down upon the toilingpigmies. The light was swept out of the day, and a deep gloomprevailed; but Frona knew that somewhere up there, clinging andclimbing and immortally striving, the long line of ants still twistedtowards the sky. And she thrilled at the thought, strong with man'sancient love of mastery, and stepped into the line which came out ofthe storm behind and disappeared into the storm before.
She blew through the gap of the pass in a whirlwind of vapor, with handand foot clambered down the volcanic ruin of Chilcoot's mighty father,and stood on the bleak edge of the lake which filled the pit of thecrater. The lake was angry and white-capped, and though a hundredcaches were waiting ferriage, no boats were plying back and forth. Arickety skeleton of sticks, in a shell of greased canvas, lay upon therocks. Frona sought out the owner, a bright-faced young fellow, withsharp black eyes and a salient jaw. Yes, he was the ferryman, but hehad quit work for the day. Water too rough for freighting. He chargedtwenty-five dollars for passengers, but he was not taking passengersto-day. Had he not said it was too rough? That was why.
"But you will take me, surely?" she asked.
He shook his head and gazed out over the lake. "At the far end it'srougher than you see it here. Even the big wooden boats won't tackleit. The last that tried, with a gang of packers aboard, was blown overon the west shore. We could see them plainly. And as there's no trailaround from there, they'll have to camp it out till the blow is over."
"But they're better off than I am. My camp outfit is at Happy Camp,and I can't very well stay here," Frona smiled winsomely, but there wasno appeal in the smile; no feminine helplessness throwing itself on thestrength and chivalry of the male. "Do reconsider and take me across."
"No."
"I'll give you fifty."
"No, I say."
"But I'm not afraid, you know."
The young fellow's eyes flashed angrily. He turned upon her suddenly,but on second thought did not utter the words forming on his lips. Sherealized the unintentional slur she had cast, and was about to explain.But on second thought she, too, remained silent; for she read him, andknew that it was perhaps the only way for her to gain her point. Theystood there, bodies inclined to the storm in the manner of seamen onsloped decks, unyieldingly looking into each other's eyes. His hairwas plastered in wet ringlets on his forehead, while hers, in longerwisps, beat furiously about her face.
"Come on, then!" He flung the boat into the water with an angry jerk,and tossed the oars aboard. "Climb in! I'll take you, but not foryour fifty dollars. You pay the regulation price, and that's all."
A gust of the gale caught the light shell and swept it broadside for ascore of feet. The spray drove inboard in a continuous stingingshower, and Frona at once fell to work with the bailing-can.
"I hope we're blown ashore," he shouted, stooping forward to the oars."It would be embarrassing--for you." He looked up savagely into herface.
"No," she modified; "but it would be very miserable for both of us,-
-anight without tent, blankets, or fire. Besides, we're not going toblow ashore."
She stepped out on the slippery rocks and helped him heave up thecanvas craft and tilt the water out. On either side uprose bare wetwalls of rock. A heavy sleet was falling steadily, through which a fewstreaming caches showed in the gathering darkness.
"You'd better hurry up," he advised, thanking her for the assistanceand relaunching the boat. "Two miles of stiff trail from here to HappyCamp. No wood until you get there, so you'd best hustle along.Good-by."
Frona reached out and took his hand, and said, "You are a brave man."
"Oh, I don't know." He returned the grip with usury and looked hisadmiration.
A dozen tents held grimly to their pegs on the extreme edge of thetimber line at Happy Camp. Frona, weary with the day, went from tentto tent. Her wet skirts clung heavily to her tired limbs, while thewind buffeted her brutally about. Once, through a canvas wall, sheheard a man apostrophizing gorgeously, and felt sure that it was DelBishop. But a peep into the interior told a different tale; so shewandered fruitlessly on till she reached the last tent in the camp.She untied the flap and looked in. A spluttering candle showed the oneoccupant, a man, down on his knees and blowing lustily into thefire-box of a smoky Yukon stove.
