A Century of Great Western Stories

by A Century of Great Western Stories (retail) (epub)

  “Neither can I go back on old Wes’ and Billy. So I take a halfway course. Just to manifest my entire disapproval, if anyone makes a move to go through that gate I’ll use my one shot—and it won’t be on the man goin’ through the gate, either. Nor yet on you, Uncle Pete. You’re the leader. So if you want to give the word, go it! I’m not goin’ to shoot you. Nor I ain’t goin’ to shoot any of the Bar W push. They’re free to start the ball rolling.”

  Uncle Pete, thus deprived of the initiatory power, looked helplessly around the Bar W push for confirmation. They nodded in concert. “He’ll do whatever he says,” said Clay Cooper.

  “Thanks,” said Jeff pleasantly, “for this unsolicited testimonial. Now, boys, there’s no dare about this. Just cause and effect. All of you are plumb safe to make a break—but one. To show you that there’s nothing personal about it, no dislike or anything like that, I’ll tell you how I picked that one. I started at some place near both ends or the middle and counted backward, or forward, sayin’ to myself, ‘Intra, mintra, cutra, corn, apple seed and briar thorn,’ and when I got to ‘thorn’ that man was stuck. That’s all. Them’s the rules.”

  That part of Uncle Pete’s face visible between beard and hat was purple through the brown. He glared at Jeff, opened his mouth, shut it tightly, and breathed heavily through his nose. He looked at his horse’s ears, he looked at the low sun, he looked at the distant hills; his gaze wandered disconsolately back to the twinkling indomitable eyes of the man on the gatepost. Uncle Pete sighed deeply.

  “That’s good! I’ll just about make the wagon by noon,” he remarked gently. He took his quirt from his saddle horn. “Young man,” he said gravely, flicking his horse’s flank, “any time you’re out of a job come over and see me.” He waved his hand, nodded, and was gone.

  Clay Cooper spurred up and took his place, his black eyes snapping. “I like a damned fool,” he hissed, “but you suit me too well!”

  The forty followed; some pausing for quip or jest, some in frowning silence. But each, as he passed that bright, audacious figure, touched his hat in salute to a gallant foe.

  Squatty Robinson was the last. He rode close up and whispered confidentially, “I want you should do me a favor, Jeff. Just throw down on me and take my gun away. I don’t want to go back to camp with any such tale as this.”

  “You see, Billy,” explained Jeff, “you mustn’t dare the denizens—never! They dare. They’re uncultured; their lives ain’t noways valuable to society and they know it. If you notice, I took pains not to dare anybody. Quite otherhow. I merely stated annnoyin’ consequences to some other fellow, attractive as I could, but impersonal. Just like I’d tell you: ‘Billy, I wouldn’t set the oil can on the fire—it might boil over.’

  “Now, if I’d said: ‘Uncle Pete, if anybody makes a break I’ll shoot your eye out, anyhow,’ there’d ’a’ been only one dignified course open to him. Him and me would now be dear Alphonsing each other about payin’ the ferryman.

  “S’pose I’d made oration to shoot the first man through the gate. Every man Jack would have come a-snuffin’—each one tryin’ to be first. The way I put it up to ’em, to be first wasn’t no graceful act—playin’ safe at some one else’s expense—and then they seen that someone else wouldn’t be gettin’ an equitable vibration. That’s all there was to it. If there wasn’t any first there couldn’t conveniently be any second, so they went home. B-r-r! I’m sleepy. Let’s go bye-bye. Wake that dern lazy Mexican up and make him keep watch till the sheriff comes!”

  Like Jack London, Rex Beach (1877–1949) was lured by the excitement and adventure of the 1898 Yukon Gold Rush and subsequently spent a number of years prospecting in the Yukon and later in Alaska. Also like London, he wrote often and well of the “Land of the Midnight Sun” (as well as of the American West, South America, and other exotic locales). His first book, a collection of “Northern” and Western stories, Pardners, was published in 1905; his best novel, The Spoiler, appeared a year later and was a runaway bestseller. Beach’s work is little known among modern readers, a regrettable fact. “The Weight of Obligation,” a harrowing tale of the frozen north and of the test of a friendship, remains as fresh and vital as when it was initially published.

  The Weight of Obligation

  Rex Beach

  This is the story of a burden, the tale of a load that irked a strong man’s shoulders. To those who do not know the North it may seem strange, but to those who understand the humors of men in solitude, and the extravagant vagaries that steal in upon their minds, as fog drifts with the night, it will not appear unusual. There are spirits in the wilderness, eerie forces which play pranks; some droll or whimsical, others grim.

  Johnny Cantwell and Mortimer Grant were partners, trailmates, brothers in soul if not in blood. The ebb and flow of frontier life had brought them together, its hardships had united them until they were as one. They were something of a mystery to each other, neither having surrendered all his confidence, and because of this they retained their mutual attraction. Had they known each other fully, had they thoroughly sounded each other’s depths, they would have lost interest, just like husbands and wives who give themselves too freely and reserve nothing.

  They had met by accident, but they remained together by desire, and so satisfactory was the union that not even the jealousy of women had come between them. There had been women, of course, just as there had been adventures of other sorts, but the love of the partners was larger and finer than anything else they had experienced. It was so true and fine and unselfish, in fact, that either would have smilingly relinquished the woman of his desires had the other wished to possess her. They were young, strong men, and the world was full of sweethearts, but where was there a partnership like theirs, they asked themselves.

  The spirit of adventure bubbled merrily within them, too, and it led them into curious byways. It was this which sent them northward from the states in the dead of winter, on the heels of the Stony River strike; it was this which induced them to land at Katmai instead of Illiamna, whither their land journey should have commenced.

  “There are two routes over the coast range,” the captain of the Dora told them, “and only two. Illiamna Pass is low and easy, but the distance is longer than by way of Katmai. I can land you at either place.”

  “Katmai is pretty tough, isn’t it?” Grant inquired.

  “We’ve understood it’s the worst pass in Alaska.” Cantwell’s eyes were eager.

  “It’s a heller! Nobody travels it except natives, and they don’t like it. Now, Illiamna—”

  “We’ll try Katmai. Eh, Mort?”

  “Sure! They don’t come hard enough for us, Cap. We’ll see if it’s as bad as it’s painted.”

  So, one gray January morning they were landed on a frozen beach, their outfit was flung ashore through the surf, the lifeboat pulled away, and the Dora disappeared after a farewell toot of her whistle. Their last glimpse of her showed the captain waving good-bye and the purser flapping a red tablecloth at them from the afterdeck.

  “Cheerful place, this,” Grant remarked, as he noted the desolate surroundings of dune and hillside.

  The beach itself was black and raw where the surf washed it, but elsewhere all was white, save for the thickets of alder and willow which protruded nakedly. The bay was little more than a hollow scooped out of the Alaskan range; along the foothills behind there was a belt of spruce and cottonwood and birch. It was a lonely and apparently unpeopled wilderness in which they had been set down.

  “Seems good to be back in the north again, doesn’t it?” said Cantwell, cheerily. “I’m tired of the booze, and the streetcars, and the dames, and all that civilized stuff. I’d rather be broken in Alaska—with you—than a banker’s son, back home.”

  Soon a globular Russian half-breed, the Katmai trader, appeared among the dunes, and with him were some native villagers. That night the partners slept in a snug log cabin, the roof of which was chained down with old ships’ cables. Petellin,
the fat little trader, explained that roofs in Katmai had a way of sailing off seaward when the wind blew. He listened to their plan of crossing the divide and nodded.

  It could be done, of course, he agreed, but they were foolish to try it, when the Illiamna route was open. Still, now that they were here, he would find dogs for them, and a guide. The village hunters were out after meat, however, and until they returned the white men would need to wait in patience.

  There followed several days of idleness, during which Cantwell and Grant amused themselves around the village, teasing the squaws, playing games with the boys, and flirting harmlessly with the girls, one of whom, in particular, was not unattractive. She was perhaps three-quarters Aleut, the other quarter being plain coquette, and, having been educated at the town of Kodiak, she knew the ways and the wiles of the white man.

  Cantwell approached her, and she met his extravagant advances more than halfway. They were getting along nicely together when Grant, in a spirit of fun, entered the game and won her fickle smiles for himself. He joked his partner unmercifully, and Johnny accepted defeat gracefully, never giving the matter a second thought.

  When the hunters returned, dogs were bought, a guide was hired, and, a week after landing, the friends were camped at timberline awaiting a favorable moment for their dash across the range. Above them white hillsides rose in irregular leaps to the gash in the saw-toothed barrier which formed the pass; below them a short valley led down to Katmai and the sea. The day was bright, the air clear, nevertheless after the guide had stared up at the peaks for a time he shook his head, then re-entered the tent and lay down. The mountains were “smoking;” from their tops streamed a gossamer veil which the travelers knew to be drifting snow clouds carried by the wind. It meant delay, but they were patient.

  They were up and going on the following morning, however, with the Indian in the lead. There was no trail; the hills were steep; in places they were forced to unload the sled and hoist their outfit by means of ropes, and as they mounted higher the snow deepened. It lay like loose sand, only lighter; it shoved ahead of the sled in a feathery mass; the dogs wallowed in it and were unable to pull, hence the greater part of the work devolved upon the men. Once above the foothills and into the range proper, the going became more level, but the snow remained knee-deep.

  The Indian broke trail stolidly; the partners strained at the sled, which hung back like a leaden thing. By afternoon the dogs had become disheartened and refused to heed the whip. There was neither fuel nor running water, and therefore the party did not pause for luncheon. The men were sweating profusely from their exertions and had long since become parched with thirst, but the dry snow was like chalk and scoured their throats.

  Cantwell was the first to show the effects of his unusual exertions, for not only had he assumed a lion’s share of the work, but the last few months of easy living had softened his muscles, and in consequence his vitality was quickly spent. His undergarments were drenched; he was fearfully dry inside; a terrible thirst seemed to penetrate his whole body; he was forced to rest frequently.

  Grant eyed him with some concern, finally inquiring, “Feel bad, Johnny?”

  Cantwell nodded. Their fatigue made both men economical of language.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Thirsty!” The former could barely speak.

  “There won’t be any water till we get across. You’ll have to stand it.”

  They resumed their duties; the Indian swish-swished ahead, as if wading through a sea of swan’s down; the dogs followed listlessly; the partners leaned against the stubborn load.

  A faint breath finally came out of the north, causing Grant and the guide to study the sky anxiously. Cantwell was too weary to heed the increasing cold. The snow on the slopes above began to move; here and there, on exposed ridges, it rose in clouds and puffs; the clean-cut outlines of the hills became obscured as by a fog; the languid wind bit cruelly.

  After a time Johnny fell back upon the sled and exclaimed, “I’m—all in, Mort. Don’t seem to have the—guts.” He was pale, his eyes were tortured. He scooped a mitten full of snow and raised it to his lips, then spat it out, still dry.

  “Here! Brace up!” In a panic of apprehension at this collapse Grant shook him; he had never known Johnny to fail like this. “Take a drink of booze; it’ll do you good.” He drew a bottle of brandy from one of the dunnage bags and Cantwell seized it avidly. It was wet; it would quench his thirst, he thought. Before Mort could check him he had drunk a third of the contents.

  The effect was almost instantaneous, for Cantwell’s stomach was empty and his tissues seemed to absorb the liquor like a dry sponge; his fatigue fell away, he became suddenly strong and vigorous again. But before he had gone a hundred yards the reaction followed. First his mind grew thick, then his limbs became unmanageable and his muscles flabby. He was drunk. Yet it was a strange and dangerous intoxication, against which he struggled desperately. He fought it for perhaps a quarter of a mile before it mastered him; then he gave up.

  Both men knew that stimulants are never taken on the trail, but they had never stopped to reason why, and even now they did not attribute Johnny’s breakdown to the brandy. After a while he stumbled and fell, then, the cool snow being grateful to his face, he sprawled there motionless until Mort dragged him to the sled. He stared at his partner in perplexity and laughed foolishly. The wind was increasing, darkness was near, they had not yet reached the Bering slope.

  Something in the drunken man’s face frightened Grant and, extracting a ship’s biscuit from the grub-box, he said, hurriedly, “Here, Johnny. Get something under your belt, quick.”

  Cantwell obediently munched the hard cracker, but there was no moisture 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 snowshoed 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 d
ream. “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 trailmate 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 proven 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 the 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.