The Country Beyond: A Romance of the Wilderness

by James Oliver Curwood

  CHAPTER XV

  Through the blizzard Jolly Roger made his way a score of miles southwardfrom the big dune on the Barren. For a day and a night he made his campin the scrub timber which edged the vast treeless tundras reaching tothe Arctic. He believed he was safe, for the unceasing wind and theblasts of shot-like snow filled his tracks a few moments after they weremade. He struck a straight line for his cabin after that first day andnight in the scrub timber. The storm was still a thing of terrific forceout on the barren, but in the timber he was fairly well sheltered. Hewas convinced the police patrol would find his cabin very soon after thestorm had worn itself out. Porter and Tavish did not trouble him. Butfrom Breault he knew there was no getting away. Breault would nose outhis cabin. And for that reason he was determined to reach it first.

  The second night he did not sleep. His mind was a wild thing--wild as aLoup-Garou seeking out its ghostly trails; it passed beyond his mastery,keeping sleep away from him though he was dead tired. It carried himback over all the steps of his outlawry, visioning for him the score oftimes he had escaped, as he was narrowly escaping now; and it picturedfor him, like a creature of inquisition, the tightening net ahead ofhim, the final futility of all his effort. And at last, as if moved bypity to ease his suffering a little, it brought him back vividly to thegreen valley, the flowers and the blue skies of Cragg's Ridge--and Nada.

  It was like a dream. At times he could scarcely assure himself that hehad actually lived those weeks and months of happiness down on the edgeof civilization; it seemed impossible that Nada had come like an Angelinto his life down there, and that she had loved him, even when heconfessed himself a fugitive from the law and had entreated him to takeher with him. He closed his eyes and that last roaring night of storm atCragg's Ridge was about him again. He was in the little old Missioner'scabin, with thunder and lightning rending earth and sky outside and Nadawas in his arms, her lips against his, the piteous heartbreak of despairin her eyes. Then he saw her--a moment later--a crumpled heap downbeside the chair, the disheveled glory of her hair hiding her white facefrom him as he hesitated for a single instant before opening the doorand plunging out into the night.

  With a cry he sprang up, dashing the vision from him, and threw freshfuel on the fire. And he cried out the same old thought to Peter.

  "It would have been murder for us to bring her, Pied-Bot. It would havebeen murder!"

  He looked about him at the swirling chaos outside the rim of light madeby his fire and listened to the moaning of the wind over the treetops.Beyond the circle of light the dry snow, which crunched like sand underhis feet, was lost in ghostly gloom. It was forty degrees below zero.And he was glad, even with this sickness of despair in his heart, thatshe was not a fugitive with him tonight.

  Yet he built up a little make-believe world for himself as he sat witha blanket hugged close about him, staring into the fire. In a hundreddifferent ways he saw her face, a will-o-the-wisp thing amid the flames;an illusive, very girlish, almost childish face--yet always with thelight of a woman's soul shining in it. That was the miracle whichstartled him at last. It seemed as if the fiction he built up in hisdespair transformed itself subtly into fact and that her soul had cometo him from out of the southland and was speaking to him with eyes whichnever changed or faltered in their adoration, their faith and theircourage. She seemed to come to him, to creep into his arms under thefolds of the blanket and he sensed the soft crush of her hair, the touchof her lips, the warm encircling of her arms about his neck. Closer tohim pressed the mystery, until the beating of her heart was a livingpulse against him; and then--suddenly, as an irresistible impulse closedhis arms to hold the spirit to him, his eyes were drawn to the heartof the fire, and he saw there for an instant, wide-eyed and speaking tohim, the face of Yellow Bird the Indian sorceress. The flames crept upthe long braids of her hair, her lips moved, and then she was gone--butslowly, like a ghost slipping upward into the mist of smoke and night.

  Peter heard his master's cry. And after that Jolly Roger rose up andthrew off the blanket and walked back and forth until his feet trod apath in the snow. He told himself it was madness to believe, and yet hebelieved. Faith fought itself back into that dark citadel of his heartfrom which for a time it had been driven. New courage lighted up againthe black chaos of his soul. And at last he fell down on his knees andgripped Peter's shaggy head between his two hands.

  "Pied-Bot, she said everything would come out right in the end," hecried, a new note in his voice. "That's what Yellow Bird told us, wasn'tit? Mebby they would have burned her as a witch a long time ago becauseshe's a sorceress, and says she can send her soul out of her body andsee what we can't see. BUT WE BELIEVE!" His voice choked up, and helaughed. "They were both here tonight," he added. "Nada--and YellowBird. And I believe--I believe--I know what it means!"

  He stood up again, and Peter saw the old smile on his master's lips asJolly Roger looked up into the swirling black canopy of the spruce-tops.And the wailing of the storm seemed no longer to hold menace and taunt,but in it he heard the whisper of fierce, strong voices urging upon himthe conviction that had already swept indecision from his heart.

  And then he said, holding out his arms as if encompassing somethingwhich he could not see.

  "Peter, we're going back to Nada!"

  Dawn was a scarcely perceptible thing when it came. Darkness seemed tofade a little, that was all. Frosty shapes took form in the gloom,and the spruce-tops became tangible in an abyss of sepulchral shadowoverhead.

  Through this beginning of the barren-land day Jolly Roger set out in thedirection of his cabin and in his blood was that new singing thing offire and warmth that more than made up for the hours of sleep he hadlost during the night. The storm was dying out, he thought, and it wasgrowing warmer; yet the wind whistled and raved in the open spaces andhis thermometer registered the fortieth and a fraction degree belowzero. The air he breathed was softer, he fancied, yet it was still heavywith the stinging shot of blizzard; and where yesterday he had seenonly the smothering chaos of twisted spruce and piled up snow, therewas now--as the pale day broadened--his old wonderland of savage beauty,awaiting only a flash of sunlight to transform it into the pure glory ofa thing indescribable. But the sun did not come and Jolly Roger did notmiss it over-much for his heart was full of Nada, and a-thrill with theinspiration of his home-going.

  "That's what it means, GOING HOME" he said to Peter, who nosed closein the path of his snowshoes. "There's a thousand miles between us andCragg's Ridge, a thousand miles of snow and ice--and hell, mebby. Butwe'll make it!"

  He was sure of himself now. It was as if he had come up from out of theshadow of a great sickness. He had been unwise. He had not reasoned asa man should reason. The hangman might be waiting for him at Cragg'sRidge, down on the rim of civilization, but that same grim executionerwas also pursuing close at his heels. He would always be pursuing in theform of a Breault, a Cassidy, a Tavish, or a Somebody Else of the RoyalNorthwest Mounted Police. It would be that way until the end came. Andwhen the end did come, when they finally got him, the blow would beeasier at Cragg's Ridge than up here on the edge of the Barren Land.

  And again there was hope, a wild, almost unbelievable hope that withNada he might find that place which Yellow Bird, the sorceress, hadpromised for them--that mystery-place of safety and of happiness whichshe had called The Country Beyond, where "all would end well." He hadnot the faith of Yellow Bird's people; he was not superstitious enoughto believe fully in her sorcery, except that he seized upon it asa drowning man might grip at a floating sea-weed. Yet was theunder-current of hope so persistent that at times it was near faith.Up to this hour Yellow Bird's sorcery had brought him nothing but thetruth. For him she had conjured the spirits of her people, and thesespirits, speaking through Yellow Bird's lips, had saved him from Cassidyat the fishing camp and had performed the miracle on the shore ofWollaston and had predicted the salvation that had come to him out onthe Barren. And so--was it not conceivable that the other would
alsocome true?

  But these visions came to him only in flashes. As he traveled throughthe hours the one vital desire of his being was to bring himselfphysically into the presence of Nada, to feel the wild joy of her in hisarms once more, the crush of her lips to his, the caress of her hands intheir old sweet way at his face--and to hear her voice, the girl's voicewith the woman's soul behind it, crying out its undying love, as he hadlast heard it that night in the Missioner's cabin many months ago. Afterthis had happened, then--if fate decreed it so--all other things mightend. Breault, the Ferret, might come. Or Porter. Or that Somebody Elsewho was always on his trail. If the game finished thus, he would besatisfied.

  When he stopped to make a pot of black tea and warm a snack to eat JollyRoger tried to explain this new meaning of life to Peter.

  "The big thing we must do is to get there--safely," he said, alreadybeginning to make plans in the back of his head. And then he went on,building up his fabric of new hope before Peter, while he crunched hisluncheon of toasted bannock and fat bacon. There was something joyousand definite in his voice which entered into Peter's blood and body.There was even a note of excitement in it, and Peter's whiskers bristledwith fresh courage and his eyes gleamed and his tail thumped the snowcomprehendingly. It was like having a master come back to him from thedead.

  And Jolly Roger even laughed, softly, under his breath.

  "This is February," he said. "We ought to make it late in March. I meanCragg's Ridge, Pied-Bot."

  After that they went on, traveling hard to reach their cabin before thedarkness of night, which would drop upon them like a thick blanket atfour o'clock. In these last hours there pressed even more heavily uponJolly Roger that growing realization of the vastness and emptiness ofthe world. It was as if blindness had dropped from his eyes and he sawthe naked truth at last. Out of this world everything had emptied itselfuntil it held only Nada. Only she counted. Only she held out her arms tohim, entreating him to keep for her that life in his body which meantso little in all other ways. He thought of one of the little worn bookswhich he carried in his shoulder-pack--Jeanne D'Arc. As she had fought,with the guidance of God, so he believed the blue-eyed girl down atCragg's Ridge was fighting for him, and had sent her spirit out in questof him. And he was going back to her. GOING!

  The last word, as it came from his lips, meant that nothing would stopthem. He almost shouted it. And Peter answered.

  In spite of their effort, darkness closed in on them. With the firstdusk of this night there came sudden lulls in which the blizzard seemedto have exhausted itself. Jolly Roger read the signs. By tomorrow therewould be no storm and Breault the Ferret would be on the trail again,along with Porter and Tavish.

  It was his old craft, his old cunning, that urged him to go on.Strangely, he prayed for the blizzard not to give up the ghost.Something must be accomplished before its fury was spent; and he wasglad when after each lull he heard again the moaning and screeching ofit over the open spaces, and the slashing together of spruce tops wherethere was cover. In a chaos of gloom they came to the low ridge whichreached across an open sweep of tundra to the finger of shelter wherethe cabin was built. An hour later they were at its door. Jolly Rogeropened it and staggered in. For a space he stood leaning against thewall while his lungs drank in the warmer air. The intake of his breathmade a whistling sound and he was surprised to find himself so nearexhaustion. He heard the thud of Peter's body as it collapsed to thefloor.

  "Tired, Pied-Bot?"

  It was difficult for his storm-beaten lips to speak the words.

  Peter thumped his tail. The rat-tap-tap of it came in one of those lullsof the storm which Jolly Roger had begun to dread.

  "I hope it keeps up another two hours," he said, wetting his lips totake the stiffness out of them. "If it doesn't--"

  He was thinking of Breault as he drew off his mittens and fumbled for amatch. It was Breault he feared. The Ferret would find his cabin and histrail if the storm died out too soon.

  He lighted the tin lamp on his table and after that, assured thatwastefulness would cost him nothing now, he set two bear-drip candlesgoing, one at each end of the cabin. The illumination filled the singleroom. There was little for it to reveal--the table he had made, a chair,a battered little sheet-iron stove, and the humped up blanket in hisbunk, under which he had stored the remainder of his possessions. Backof the stove was a pile of dry wood, and in another five minutes theroar of flames in the chimney mingled with a fresh bluster of the windoutside.

  Defying the exhaustion of limbs and body, Jolly Roger kept steadily atwork. He threw off his heavier garments as the freezing atmosphere ofthe room became warmer, and prepared for a feast.

  "We'll call it Christmas, and have everything we've got, Pied-Bot.We'll cook a quart of prunes instead of six. No use stintingourselves--tonight!"

  Even Peter was amazed at the prodigality of his master. An hour laterthey ate, and McKay drank a quart of hot coffee before he was done. Halfof his fatigue was gone and he sat back for a few minutes to finish offwith the luxury of his pipe. Peter, gorged with caribou meat, stretchedhimself out to sleep. But his eyes did not close. His master puzzledhim. For after a little Jolly Roger put on his heavy coat and parkeeand pocketed his pipe. After that he slipped the straps of his pack overhead and shoulders and then, even more to Peter's bewilderment, emptieda quart bottle of kerosene over the pile of dry wood behind the hotstove. To this he touched a lighted match. His next movement drew fromPeter a startled yelp. With a single thrust of his foot he sent thestove crashing into the middle of the floor.

  Half an hour later, when Peter and Jolly Roger looked back from thecrest of the ridge, a red pillar of flame lighted up the gloomy chaos ofthe unpeopled world they were leaving behind them. The wind was drivingfiercely from the Barren and with it came stinging volleys of the finedrift-snow. In the teeth of it Roger McKay stared back.

  "It's a good fire," he mumbled in his hood. "Half an hour and it willbe out. There'll be nothing for Breault to find if this wind keeps upanother two hours--nothing but drift-snow, with no sign of trail orcabin."

  He struck out, leaving the shelter of the ridge. Straight south he went,keeping always in the open spaces where the wind-swept drift covered hissnowshoe trail almost as soon as it was made. Darkness did not troublehim now. The open barren was ahead, miles of it, while only a little tothe westward was the shelter of timber. Twice he blundered to the edgeof this timber, but quickly set his course again in the open, with thewind always quartering at his back. He could only guess how long he kepton. The time came when he began to count the swing of his snowshoes,measuring off half a mile, or a mile, and then beginning over againuntil at last the achievement of five hundred steps seemed to take animmeasurable length of time and great effort. Like the ache of a toothcame the first warning of snowshoe cramp in his legs. In the black nighthe grinned. He knew what it meant--a warning as deadly as swimmer'scramp in deep water. If he continued much longer he would be crawling onhis hands and knees.

  Quickly he turned in the direction of the timber. He had traveled threehours, he thought, since abandoning his cabin to the flames. Anotherhalf hour, with the caution of slower, shorter steps, brought him to thetimber. Luck was with him and he cried aloud to Peter as he felt himselfin the darkness of a dense cover of spruce and balsam. He freed himselffrom his entangled snowshoes and went on deeper into the shelter. Itbecame warmer and they could feel no longer a breath of the wind.

  He unloaded his pack and drew from it a jackpine torch, dried in hiscabin and heavy with pitch. Shortly the flare of this torch lighted uptheir refuge for a dozen paces about them. In the illumination of it,moving it from place to place, he gathered dry fire wood and with hisaxe cut down green spruce for the smouldering back-fire that would lastuntil morning. By the time the torch had consumed itself the fire wasburning, and where Jolly Roger had scraped away the snow from the thickcarpet of spruce needles underfoot he piled a thick mass of balsamboughs, and in the center of the bed he buried hims
elf, wrapped warmlyin his blankets, and with Peter snuggled close at his side.

  Through dark hours the green spruce fire burned slowly and steadily. Fora long time there was wailing of wind out in the open. But at last itdied away, and utter stillness filled the world. No life moved in thesehours which followed the giving up of the big storm's last gaspingbreath. Slowly the sky cleared. Here and there a star burned through.But Jolly Roger and Peter, deep in the sleep of exhaustion, knew nothingof the change.