NNEngine/Gutenberg-Clean · Datasets at Hugging Face

id stringlengths 16 16	text stringlengths 151 2.3k	word_count int64 30 60	source stringclasses 1 value
twg_000012934600	I felt a stunning blow, a warm rush of blood. Then I fell limply forward, and all the lights seemed to go out. There I lay in a heap, and the blood spurting from my wound soaked the little piece of paper. On it was written: "Mother died this morning. Garry." "Where am I?" "Here, with me." Low and sweet	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934601	and tender was the voice. I was in bed and my head was heavily bandaged, so that the cloths weighed upon my eyelids. It was difficult to see, and I was too weak to raise myself, but I seemed to be in semi-darkness. A lamp burning on a small table nearby was turned low. By my bedside some one was	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934602	sitting, and a soft, gentle hand was holding mine. "Where is _here_?" I asked faintly. "Here--my cabin. Rest, dear." "Is that you, Berna?" "Yes, please don't talk." I thrilled with a sudden sweetness of joy. A flood of sunshine bathed me. It was all over, then, the turmoil, the storm, the shipwreck. I was drifting on a tranquil ocean of	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934603	content. Blissfully I closed my eyes. Oh, I was happy, happy! In her cabin, with her, and she was nursing me--what had happened? What new turn of events had brought about this wonderful thing? As I lay there in the quiet, trying to recall the something that went before, my poor sick brain groped but feebly amid a murk of	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934604	sinister shadows. "Berna," I said, "I've had a bad dream." "Yes, dear, you've been sick, very sick. You've had an attack of fever, brain fever. But don't try to think, just rest quietly." So for a while longer I lay there, thrilled with a strange new joy, steeped in the ineffable comfort of her presence, and growing better, stronger with	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934605	every breath. Memories came thronging back, memories that made me cringe and wince, and shudder with the shame of them. Yet ever the thought that she was with me was like a holy blessing. Surely it was all good since it had ended in this. Yet there was something else, some memory darker than the others, some shadow of shadows	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934606	that baffled me. Then as I battled with a growing terror and suspense, it all came back to me, the telegram, the news, my collapse. A great grief welled up in me, and in my agony I spoke to the girl. "Berna, tell me, is it true? Is my Mother dead?" "Yes, it's true, dear. You must try to bear	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934607	it bravely." I could feel her bending over me, could feel her hand holding mine, could feel her hair brush my cheek, yet I forgot even her just then. I thought only of Mother, of her devotion and of how little I had done to deserve it. So this was the end: a narrow grave, a rending grief and the	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934608	haunting spectre of reproach. I saw my Mother sitting at that window that faced the west, her hands meekly folded on her lap, her eyes wistfully gazing over the grey sea. I knew there was never a day of her life when she did not sit thus and think of me. I could guess at the heartache that gentle face	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934609	would not betray, the longing those tender lips would not speak, the grief those sweet eyes studied to conceal. As, sitting there in the strange clouded sunset of my native land, she let her knitting drop on her lap, I knew she prayed for me. Oh, Mother! Mother! My sobs were choking me, and Berna was holding my hand very	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934610	tightly. Yet in a little I grew calmer. "Berna," I said, "I've only got you now, only you, little girl. So you must love me, you mustn't leave me." "I'll never leave you--if you want me to stay." "God bless you, dear. I can't tell you the comfort you are to me. I'll try to be quiet now." I will	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934611	always remember those days as I grew slowly well again. The cot in which I lay stood in the sitting-room of the cabin, and from the window I could overlook the city. Snow had fallen, the days were diamond bright, and the smoke ascended sharply in the glittering air. The little room was papered with a design of wild roses	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934612	that minded me of the Whitehorse Rapids. On the walls were some little framed pictures; the floor was carpeted in dull brown, and a little heater gave out a pleasant warmth. Through a doorway draped with a curtain I could see her busy in her little kitchen. She left me much alone, alone with my thoughts. Often when all was	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934613	quiet I knew she was sitting there beyond the curtain, sitting thinking, just as I was thinking. Quiet was the keynote of our life, quiet and sunshine. That little cabin might have been a hundred miles from the gold-born city, it was so quiet. Here drifted no echo of its abandoned gaiety, its glory of demoralisation. How sweet she looked	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934614	in her spotless home attire, her neat waist, her white apron with bib and sleeves, her general air of a little housewife. And never was there so devoted a nurse. Sometimes she would read to me from one of the few books I had taken everywhere on my travels, a page or two from my beloved Stevenson, a poem from	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934615	my great-hearted Henley, a luminous passage from my Thoreau. How those readings brought back the time when, tired of flicking the tawny pools, I would sit on the edge of the boisterous little burn and read till the grey shadows sifted down! I was so happy then, and I did not know it. Now everything seemed changed. Life had lost	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934616	its zest. Its savour was no longer sweet. Its very success was more bitter than failure. Would I ever get back that old-time rapture, that youthful joy, that satisfaction with all the world? It was sweet prolonging my convalescence, yet the time came when I could no longer let her wait upon me. What was going to happen to us?	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934617	I thought of that at all times, and she knew I thought of it. Sometimes I could see a vivid colour in her cheeks, an eager brightness in her eye. Was ever a stranger situation? She slept in the little kitchen, and between us there was but that curtain. The faintest draught stirred it. There I lay through the long,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934618	long night in that quiet cabin. I heard her breathing. Sometimes even I heard her murmur in her sleep. I knew she was there, within a few yards of me. I thought of her always. I loved her beyond all else on earth. I was gaining daily in health and strength, yet not for the wealth of the world would	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934619	I have passed that little curtain. She was as safe there as if she were guarded with swords. And she knew it. Once when I was in agony I called to her in the night, and she came to me. She came with a mother's tenderness, with exquisite endearments, with the great love shining in her eyes. She leaned over	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934620	me, she kissed me. As she bent over my bed I put my arm round her. There in the darkness were we, she and I, her kisses warm upon my lips, her hair brushing my brow, and a great love devouring us. Oh, it was hard, but I released her, put her from me, told her to go away. "I'll	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934621	play the game fair," I said to myself. I must be very, very careful. Our position was full of danger. So I forced myself to be cold to her, and she looked both surprised and pained at the change in me. Then she seemed to put forth special efforts to please me. She changed the fashion of her hair, she	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934622	wore pretty bows of ribbon. She talked brightly and lightly in a febrile way. She showed little coquettish tricks of manner that were charming to my mind. Ever she looked at me with wistful concern. Her heart was innocent, and she could not understand my sudden coldness. Yet that night had given me a lightning glimpse of my nature that	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934623	frightened me. The girl was winsome beyond words, and I knew I had but to say it and she would come to me. Yet I checked myself. I retreated behind a barrier of reserve. "Play the game," I said; "play the game." So as I grew better and stronger she seemed to lose her cheerfulness. Always she had that anxious,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934624	wistful look. Once came a sound from the kitchen like stifled sobbing, and again in the night I heard her cry. Then the time came when I was well enough to get up, to go away. I dressed, looking like the cadaverous ghost I felt myself to be. She was there in the kitchen, sitting quietly, waiting. "Berna," I called.	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934625	She came, with a smile lighting up her face. "I'm going." The smile vanished, and left her with that high proud look, yet behind it was a lurking fear. "You're going?" she faltered. "Yes," I said roughly, "I'm going." She did not speak. "Are you ready?" I went on. "Ready?" "Yes, you're going, too." "Where?" I took her suddenly in	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934626	my arms. "Why, you dear little angel, to get married, of course. Come on, Berna, we'll find the nearest parson. We won't lose any more precious time." Then a great rush of tears came into her eyes. But still she hung back. She shook her head. "Why, Berna, what's the matter? Won't you come?" "I think not." "In Heaven's name,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934627	what is wrong, dear? Don't you love me?" "Yes, I love you. It's because I love you I won't come." "Won't you marry me?" "No, no, I can't. You know what I said before. I haven't changed any. I'm still the same--dishonoured girl. You could never give me your name." "You're as pure as the driven snow, little one." "No	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934628	one thinks so but you, and it's that that makes all the difference. Everybody knows. No, I could never marry you, never take your name, never bind you to me." "Well, what's to be done?" "You must go away, or--stay." "Stay?" "Yes. You've been living alone with me for a month. I picked you up that night in the dance-hall.	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934629	I had you brought here. I nursed you. Do you think people don't give us credit for the worst? We are as innocent as children, yet do you think I have a shred of reputation left? Already I am supposed to be your mistress. Everybody knows; nobody cares. There are so many living that way here. If you told them	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934630	we were innocent they would scoff at us. If you go they will say you have discarded me." "What shall I do?" "Just stay. Oh, why can't we go on as we've been doing? It's been so like home. Don't leave me, dear. I don't want to bind you. I just want to be of some use to you, to	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934631	help you, to be with you always. Love me for a little, anyway. Then when you're tired of me you can go, but don't go now." I was dazed, but she went on. "What does the ceremony matter? We love each other. Isn't that the real marriage? It's more; it's an ideal. We'll both be free to go if we	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934632	wish. There will be no bonds but those of love. Is not that beautiful, two people cleaving together for love's sake, living for each other, sacrificing for each other, yet with no man-made law to tell them: 'This must ye do'? Oh, stay, stay!" Her arms were round my neck. The grey eyes were full of pleading. The sweet lips	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934633	had the old, pathetic droop. I yielded to the empery of love. "Well," I said, "we will go on awhile, on one condition--that by-and-bye you marry me." "Yes, I will, I will; I promise. If you don't tire of me; if you are sure beyond all doubt you will never regret it, then I will marry you with the greatest	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934634	joy in the world." So it came about that I stayed. In this infernal irony of an existence why do the good things of life always come when we no longer have the same appetite to enjoy them? The year following, in which Berna and I kept house, was not altogether a happy one. Somehow we had both just missed	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934635	something. We had suffered too much to recover our poise very easily. We were sick, not in body, but in mind. The thought of her terrible experience haunted her. She was as sensitive as the petal of a delicate flower, and often would I see her lips quiver and a look of pain come into her eyes. Then I knew	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934636	of what she was thinking. I knew, and I, too, suffered. I tried to make her forget, yet I could not succeed; and even in my most happy moments there was always a shadow, the shadow of Locasto; there was always a fear, the fear of his return. Yes, it seemed at times as if we were two unfortunates, as	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934637	if our happiness had come too late, as if our lives were irretrievably shipwrecked. Locasto! where was he? For near a year had he been gone, somewhere in that wild country at the Back of Beyond. Somewhere amid the wilder peaks and valleys of the Rockies he fought his desperate battle with the Wild. There had been sinister rumours of	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934638	two lone prospectors who had perished up in that savage country, of two bodies that lay rotting and half buried by a landslide. I had a sudden, wild hope that one of them might be my enemy; for I hated him and I would have joyed at his death. When I loved Berna most exquisitely, when I gazed with tender	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934639	joy upon her sweetness, when, with glad, thankful eyes, I blessed her for the sympathy and sunshine of her presence, then between us would come a shadow, dark, menacing and mordant. So the joy-light would vanish from my eyes and a great sadness fall upon me. What would I do if he returned? I wondered. Perhaps if he left us	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934640	alone I might let by-gones be by-gones; but if he ever came near her again--well, I oiled the chambers of my Colt and heard its joyous click as it revolved. "That's for him," I said, "that's for him, if by look, by word, or by act he ever molests her again." And I meant it, too. Suffering had hardened me,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934641	made me dangerous. I would have killed him. Then, as the months went past and the suspicion of his fate deepened almost to a certainty, I began to breathe more freely. I noticed, too, a world of difference in Berna. She grew light-hearted. She sang and laughed a good deal. The sunshine came back to her eyes, and the shadow	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934642	seldom lingered there. Sometimes the thought that we were not legally married troubled me, but on all sides were men living with their Klondike wives, either openly or secretly, and where this domestic mnage was conducted in quietness there was little comment on it. We lived to ourselves, and for ourselves. We left our neighbours alone. We made few friends,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934643	and in the ferment of social life we were almost unnoticed. Of course, the Prodigal expostulated with me in severe terms. I did not attempt to argue with him. He would not have understood my point of view. There are heights and depths in life to which he with his practical mind could never attain. Yet he became very fond	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934644	of Berna, and often visited us. "Why don't you go and get churched decently, if you love her?" he demanded. "So I will," I answered calmly; "give me a little time. Wait till we get more settled." And, indeed, we were up to our necks in business these days. Our Gold Hill property had turned out well. We had a	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934645	gang of men employed there, and I made frequent trips out to Bonanza. We had given the Halfbreed a small interest, and installed him as manager. The Jam-wagon, too, we had employed as a sort of assistant foreman. Jim was busy installing his hydraulic plant on Ophir Creek, and altogether we had enough to think about. I had set my	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934646	heart on making a hundred thousand dollars, and as things were looking it seemed as if two more years would bring me to that mark. "Then," said I to Berna, "we'll go and travel all over the world, and do it in style." "Will we, dear?" she answered tenderly. "But I don't want money much now, and I don't know	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934647	that I care so much about travel either. What I would like would be to go to your home, and settle down and live quietly. What I want is a nice flower garden, and a pony to drive into town, and a home to fuss about. I would embroider, and read, and play a little, and cook things, and--just be	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934648	with you." She was greatly interested in my description of Glengyle. She never tired of questioning me about it. Particularly was she interested in my accounts of Garry, and rather scoffed at my enthusiastic description of him. "Oh, that wonderful brother of yours! One would think he was a small god, to hear you talk. I declare I'm half afraid	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934649	of him. Do you think he would like me?" "He would love you, little girl; any one would." "Don't be foolish," she chided me. And then she drew my head down and kissed me. I think we had the prettiest little cabin in all Dawson. The big logs were peeled smooth, and the ends squarely cut. The chinks were filled	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934650	in with mortar. The whole was painted a deep rich crimson. The roof was covered with sheet-iron, and it, too, was painted crimson. There was a deep porch to it. It was the snuggest, neatest little home in the world. Windows hung with dainty lace curtains peeped through its clustering greenery of vines, but the glory of it all was	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934651	the flower garden. There was a bewildering variety of flowers, but mostly I remember stocks and pinks, Iceland poppies, marguerites, asters, marigolds, verbenas, hollyhocks, pansies and petunias, growing in glorious profusion. Even the roughest miner would stand and stare at them as he tramped past on the board sidewalk. They were a mosaic of glowing colour, yet the crowning triumph	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934652	was the poppies and sweet peas. Set in the centre of the lawn was a circle that was a leaping glow of poppies. Of every shade were they, from starry pink to luminous gold, from snowy white to passionate crimson. Like vari-coloured lamps they swung, and wakened you to wonder and joy with the exultant challenge of their beauty. And	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934653	the sweet peas! All up the south side of the cabin they grew, overtopping the eaves in their riotous perfection. They rivalled the poppies in the radiant confusion of their colour, and they were so lavish of blossom we could not pick them fast enough. I think ours was the pioneer garden of the gold-born city, and awakened many to	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934654	the growth-giving magic of the long, long day. And it was the joy and pride of Berna's heart. I would sit on the porch of a summer's evening when down the mighty Yukon a sunset of vast and violent beauty flamed and languished, and I would watch her as she worked among her flowers. I can see her flitting figure	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934655	in a dress of dainty white as she hovered over a beautiful blossom. I can hear her calling me, her voice like the music of a flute, calling me to come and see some triumph of her skill. I have a picture of her coming towards me with her arms full of flowers, burying her face lovingly among the velvet	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934656	petals, and raising it again, the sweetest flower of all. How radiantly outshone her eyes, and her face, delicate as a cameo, seemed to have stolen the fairest tints of the lily and the rose. Starry vines screened the porch, and everywhere were swinging baskets of silver birch, brimming over with the delicate green of smilax or clouded in an	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934657	amethystine mist of lobelias. I can still see the little sitting-room with its piano, its plenitude of cushions, its book-rack, its Indian corner, its tasteful paper, its pictures, and always and everywhere flowers, flowers. The air was heavy with the fragrance of them. They glorified the crudest corner, and made our home like a nook in fairyland. I remember one	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934658	night as I sat reading she came to me. Never did I see her look so happy. She was almost childlike in her joy. She sat down by my chair and looked up at me. Then she put her arms around me. "Oh, I'm so happy," she said with a sigh. "Are you, dearest?" I caressed the soft floss of	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934659	her hair. "Yes, I just wish we could live like this forever;" and she nestled up to me ever so fondly. Aye, she was happy, and I will always bless the memory of those days, and thank God I was the means of bringing a little gladness into her marred life. She was happy, and yet we were living in	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934660	what society would call sin. Conventionally we were not man and wife, yet never were man and wife more devoted, more self-respecting. Never were man and wife endowed with purer ideals, with a more exalted conception of the sanctity of love. Yet there were many in the town not half so delicate, so refined, so spiritual, who would have passed	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934661	my little lady like a pariah. But what cared we? And perhaps it was the very greatness of my love for her that sometimes made me fear; so that often in the ecstasy of a moment I would catch my breath and wonder if it all could last. And when the poplars turned to gold, and up the valley stole	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934662	a shuddering breath of desolation, my fear grew apace. The sky was all resplendent with the winter stars, and keen and hard their facets sparkled. And I knew that somewhere underneath those stars there slept Locasto. But was it the sleep of the living or of the dead? Would he return? Two men were crawling over the winter-locked plain. In	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934663	the aching circle of its immensity they were like little black ants. One, the leader, was of great bulk and of a vast strength; while the other was small and wiry, of the breed that clings like a louse to life while better men perish. On all sides of the frozen lake over which they were travelling were hills covered	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934664	with harsh pine, that pricked funereally up to the boulder-broken snows. Above that was a stormy and fantastic sea of mountains baring many a fierce peak-fang to the hollow heavens. The sky was a waxen grey, cold as a corpse-light. The snow was an immaculate shroud, unmarked by track of bird or beast. Death-sealed the land lay in its silent	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934665	vastitude, in its despairful desolation. The small man was breaking trail. Down almost to his knees in the soft snow, he sank at every step; yet ever he dragged a foot painfully upward, and made another forward plunge. The snowshoe thong, jagged with ice, chafed him cruelly. The muscles of his legs ached as insistently as if clamped in a	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934666	vice. He lurched forward with fatigue, so that he seemed to be ever stumbling, yet recovering himself. "Come on there, you darned little shrimp; get a move on you," growled the big man from within the frost-fringed hood of his parka. The little man started as if galvanised into sudden life. His breath steamed and almost hissed as it struck	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934667	the icy air. At each raw intake of it his chest heaved. He beat his mittened hands on his breast to keep them from freezing. Under the hood of his parka great icicles had formed, hanging to the hairs of his beard, walrus-like, and his eyes, thickly wadded with frost, glared out with the furtive fear of a hunted beast.	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934668	"Curse him, curse him," he whimpered; but once more he lifted those leaden snowshoes and staggered on. The big man lashed fiercely at the dogs, and as they screamed at his blows he laughed cruelly. They were straining forward in the harness, their bellies almost level with the ground, their muscles standing out like whalebone. Great, gaunt brutes they were,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934669	with ribs like barrel-staves, and hip-bones sharp as stakes. Their woolly coats were white with frost, their sly, slit-eyed faces ice-sheathed, their feet torn so that they left a bloody track on the snow at every step. "Mush on there, you curs, or I'll cut you in two," stormed the big man, and once again the heavy whip fell on	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934670	the yelling pack. They were pulling for all they were worth, their heads down, their shoulders squared. Their breath came pantingly, their tongues gleamed redly, their white teeth shone. They were fighting, fighting for life, fighting to placate a cruel master in a world where all was cruelty and oppression. For there in the Winter Wild pity was not even	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934671	a name. It was the struggle for life, desperate and never-ending. The Wild abhorred life, abhorred most of all these atoms of heat and hurry in the midst of her triumphant stillness. The Wild would crush those defiant pigmies that disputed the majesty of her invincible calm. A dog was hanging back in the harness. It whined; then as the	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934672	husky following snapped at it savagely, it gave a lurch and fell. The big man shot forward with a sudden fury in his eyes. Swinging the heavy-thonged whip, again and again he brought it down on the writhing brute. Then he twisted the thong around his hand and belaboured its hollow ribs with the butt. It screamed for a while,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934673	but soon it ceased to scream; it only moaned a little. With glistening fangs and ears up-pricked the other dogs looked at their fallen comrade. They longed to leap on it, to rend its gaunt limbs apart, to tear its quivering flesh; but there was the big man with his murderous whip, and they cowered before him. The big man	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934674	kicked the fallen dog repeatedly. The little man paused in his painful progress to look on apathetically. "You'll stave in its ribs," he remarked presently; "and then we'll never make timber by nightfall." The big man had failed in his efforts to rouse the dog. There in that lancinating cold, in an ecstasy of rage, despairfully he poised over it.	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934675	"Who told you to put in your lip?" he snarled. "Who's running this show, you or I? I'll stave in its ribs if I choose, and I'll hitch you to the sled and make you pull your guts out, too." The little man said no more. Then, the dog still refusing to rise, the big man leapt over the harness	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934676	and came down on the animal with both feet. There was a scream of pitiful agony, and the snap of breaking bones. But the big man slipped and fell. Down he came, and like a flash the whole pack piled onto him. For a moment there was a confused muddle of dogs and master. This was the time for which	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934677	they had waited, these savage semi-wolves. This man had beaten them, had starved them, had been a devil to them, and now he was down and at their mercy. Ferociously they sprang on him, and their white fangs snapped like traps in his face. They fought to get at his throat. They tore at his parka. Oh, if they could	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934678	only make their teeth meet in his warm flesh! But no; they were all tangled up in the harness, and the man was fighting like a giant. He had the leader by the throat and was using her as a shield against the others. His right hand swung the whip with flail-like blows. Foiled and confused the dogs fell to	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934679	fighting among themselves, and triumphantly the man leapt to his feet. He was like a fiend now. Fiercely he raged among the snarling pack, kicking, clubbing, cursing, till one and all he had them beaten into cowering subjection. He was still panting from his struggle. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were glittering. He strode up to the	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934680	little man, who had watched the performance stolidly. "Why didn't you help me, you dirty little whelp?" he hissed. "You wanted to see them chew me up; you know you did. You'd like to have them rip me to ribbons. You wouldn't move a finger to save me. Oh, I know, I know. I've had enough of you this trip	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934681	to last me a lifetime. You've bucked me right along. Now, blast your dirty little soul, I hate you, and for the rest of the way I'm going to make your life hell. See! Now I'll begin." The little man was afraid. He seemed to grow smaller, while over him towered the other, dark, fierce and malignant. The little man	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934682	was desperate. Defensively he crouched, yet the next instant he was overthrown. Then, as he lay sprawling in the snow, the big man fell to lashing him with the whip. Time after time he struck, till the screams of his victim became one long, drawn-out wail of agony. Then he desisted. Jerking the other on his feet once more, he	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934683	bade him go on breaking trail. Again they struggled on. The light was beginning to fail, and there was no thought in their minds but to reach that dark belt of timber before darkness came. There was no sound but the crunch of their snowshoes, the panting of the dogs, the rasping of the sleigh. When they paused the silence	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934684	seemed to fall on them like a blanket. There was something awful in the quality of this deathly silence. It was as if something material, something tangible, hovered over them, closed in on them, choked them, throttled them. It was almost like a Presence. Weary and worn were men and dogs as they struggled onwards in the growing gloom, but	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934685	because of the feeling in his heart the little man no longer was conscious of bodily pain. It was black murder that raged there. With straining sinews and bones that cracked, the dogs bent to a heavy pull, while at the least sign of shirking down swished the relentless whip. And the big man, as if proud of his strength,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934686	gazed insolently round on the Wild. He was at home in this land, this stark wolf-land, so callous, so cruel. Was he not cruel, too? Surely this land cowered before him. Its hardships could not daunt him, nor its terrors dismay. As he urged on his bloody-footed dogs, he exulted greatly. Of all Men of the High North was he	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934687	not king? At last they reached the forest fringe, and after a few harsh directions he had the little man making camp. The little man worked with a strange willingness. All his taciturnity had gone. As he gathered the firewood and filled the Yukon stove, he hummed a merry air. He had the water boiling and soon there was the	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934688	fragrance of tea in the little tent. He produced sourdough bread (which he fried in bacon fat), and some dried moose-meat. To men of the trail this was a treat. They ate ravenously, but they did not speak. Yet the little man was oddly cheerful. Time and again the big man looked at him suspiciously. Outside it was a steely	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934689	night, with an icicle of a moon. The cold leapt on one savagely. To step from the tent was like plunging into icy water, yet within those canvas walls the men were warm and snug. The stove crackled its cheer. A grease-light sputtered, and by its rays the little man was mending his ice-stiffened moccasins. He hummed an Irish air,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934690	and he seemed to be tickled with some thought he had. "Stop that tune," growled the other. "If you don't know anything else, cut it out. I'm sick of it." The little man shut up meekly. Again there was silence, broken by a whining and a scratching outside. It was the five dogs crying for their supper, crying for the	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934691	frozen fish they had earned so well. They wondered why it was not forthcoming. When they received it they would lie on it, to warm it with the heat of their bodies, and then gnaw off the thawed portions. They were very wise, these dogs. But to-night there was no fish, and they whined for it. "Dog feed all gone?"	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934692	"Yep," said the small man. "Hell! I'll silence these brutes anyway." He went to the door and laid onto them so that they slunk away into the shadows. But they did not bury themselves in the snow and sleep. They continued to prowl round the tent, hunger-mad and desperate. "We've only got enough grub left for ourselves now," said the	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934693	big man; "and none too much at that. I guess I'll put you on half-rations." He laughed as if it was the hugest joke. Then rolling himself in a robe, he lay down and slept. The little man did not sleep. He was still turning over the thought that had come to him. Outside in the atrocious cold the whining	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934694	malamutes crept nearer and nearer. Savage were they, Indian raised and sired by a wolf. And now, in the agonies of hunger, they cried for fish, and there was none for them, only kicks and curses. Oh, it was a world of ghastly cruelty! They howled their woes to the weary moon. "Short rations, indeed," mumbled the little man. He	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934695	crawled into his sleeping bag, but he did not close his eyes. He was watching. About dawn he rose. An evil dawn it was, sallow, sinister and askew. The little man selected the heavy-handled whip for the job. Carefully he felt its butt, then he struck. It was a shrewd blow and a neatly delivered, for the little man had	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934696	been in the business before. It fell on the big man's head, and he crumpled up. Then the little man took some rawhide thongs and trussed up his victim. There lay the big man, bound and helpless, with a clotted blood-hole in his black hair. Then the little man gathered up the rest of the provisions. He looked around carefully,	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934697	as if fearful of leaving anything behind. He made a pack of the food and lashed it on his back. Now he was ready to start. He knew that within fifty miles, travelling to the south, he would strike a settlement. He was safe. He turned to where lay the unconscious body of his partner. Again and again he kicked	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934698	it; he cursed it; he spat on it. Then, after a final look of gloating hate, he went off and left the big man to his fate. At last, at long last, the Worm had turned. The dogs! The dogs were closing in. Nearer and nearer they drew, headed by a fierce Mackenzie River bitch. They wondered why their master	60	gutenberg
twg_000012934699	did not wake; they wondered why the little tent was so still; why no plume of smoke rose from the slim stovepipe. All was oddly quiet and lifeless. No curses greeted them; no whiplash cut into them; no strong arm jerked them over the harness. Perhaps it was a primordial instinct that drew them on, that made them strangely bold.	60	gutenberg

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I felt a stunning blow, a warm rush of blood. Then I fell limply forward, and all the lights seemed to go out. There I lay in a heap, and the blood spurting from my wound soaked the little piece of paper. On it was written: "Mother died this morning. Garry." "Where am I?" "Here, with me." Low and sweet

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and tender was the voice. I was in bed and my head was heavily bandaged, so that the cloths weighed upon my eyelids. It was difficult to see, and I was too weak to raise myself, but I seemed to be in semi-darkness. A lamp burning on a small table nearby was turned low. By my bedside some one was

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sitting, and a soft, gentle hand was holding mine. "Where is _here_?" I asked faintly. "Here--my cabin. Rest, dear." "Is that you, Berna?" "Yes, please don't talk." I thrilled with a sudden sweetness of joy. A flood of sunshine bathed me. It was all over, then, the turmoil, the storm, the shipwreck. I was drifting on a tranquil ocean of

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content. Blissfully I closed my eyes. Oh, I was happy, happy! In her cabin, with her, and she was nursing me--what had happened? What new turn of events had brought about this wonderful thing? As I lay there in the quiet, trying to recall the something that went before, my poor sick brain groped but feebly amid a murk of

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sinister shadows. "Berna," I said, "I've had a bad dream." "Yes, dear, you've been sick, very sick. You've had an attack of fever, brain fever. But don't try to think, just rest quietly." So for a while longer I lay there, thrilled with a strange new joy, steeped in the ineffable comfort of her presence, and growing better, stronger with

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every breath. Memories came thronging back, memories that made me cringe and wince, and shudder with the shame of them. Yet ever the thought that she was with me was like a holy blessing. Surely it was all good since it had ended in this. Yet there was something else, some memory darker than the others, some shadow of shadows

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that baffled me. Then as I battled with a growing terror and suspense, it all came back to me, the telegram, the news, my collapse. A great grief welled up in me, and in my agony I spoke to the girl. "Berna, tell me, is it true? Is my Mother dead?" "Yes, it's true, dear. You must try to bear

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it bravely." I could feel her bending over me, could feel her hand holding mine, could feel her hair brush my cheek, yet I forgot even her just then. I thought only of Mother, of her devotion and of how little I had done to deserve it. So this was the end: a narrow grave, a rending grief and the

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haunting spectre of reproach. I saw my Mother sitting at that window that faced the west, her hands meekly folded on her lap, her eyes wistfully gazing over the grey sea. I knew there was never a day of her life when she did not sit thus and think of me. I could guess at the heartache that gentle face

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would not betray, the longing those tender lips would not speak, the grief those sweet eyes studied to conceal. As, sitting there in the strange clouded sunset of my native land, she let her knitting drop on her lap, I knew she prayed for me. Oh, Mother! Mother! My sobs were choking me, and Berna was holding my hand very

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tightly. Yet in a little I grew calmer. "Berna," I said, "I've only got you now, only you, little girl. So you must love me, you mustn't leave me." "I'll never leave you--if you want me to stay." "God bless you, dear. I can't tell you the comfort you are to me. I'll try to be quiet now." I will

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always remember those days as I grew slowly well again. The cot in which I lay stood in the sitting-room of the cabin, and from the window I could overlook the city. Snow had fallen, the days were diamond bright, and the smoke ascended sharply in the glittering air. The little room was papered with a design of wild roses

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that minded me of the Whitehorse Rapids. On the walls were some little framed pictures; the floor was carpeted in dull brown, and a little heater gave out a pleasant warmth. Through a doorway draped with a curtain I could see her busy in her little kitchen. She left me much alone, alone with my thoughts. Often when all was

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quiet I knew she was sitting there beyond the curtain, sitting thinking, just as I was thinking. Quiet was the keynote of our life, quiet and sunshine. That little cabin might have been a hundred miles from the gold-born city, it was so quiet. Here drifted no echo of its abandoned gaiety, its glory of demoralisation. How sweet she looked

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in her spotless home attire, her neat waist, her white apron with bib and sleeves, her general air of a little housewife. And never was there so devoted a nurse. Sometimes she would read to me from one of the few books I had taken everywhere on my travels, a page or two from my beloved Stevenson, a poem from

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my great-hearted Henley, a luminous passage from my Thoreau. How those readings brought back the time when, tired of flicking the tawny pools, I would sit on the edge of the boisterous little burn and read till the grey shadows sifted down! I was so happy then, and I did not know it. Now everything seemed changed. Life had lost

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its zest. Its savour was no longer sweet. Its very success was more bitter than failure. Would I ever get back that old-time rapture, that youthful joy, that satisfaction with all the world? It was sweet prolonging my convalescence, yet the time came when I could no longer let her wait upon me. What was going to happen to us?

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I thought of that at all times, and she knew I thought of it. Sometimes I could see a vivid colour in her cheeks, an eager brightness in her eye. Was ever a stranger situation? She slept in the little kitchen, and between us there was but that curtain. The faintest draught stirred it. There I lay through the long,

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long night in that quiet cabin. I heard her breathing. Sometimes even I heard her murmur in her sleep. I knew she was there, within a few yards of me. I thought of her always. I loved her beyond all else on earth. I was gaining daily in health and strength, yet not for the wealth of the world would

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I have passed that little curtain. She was as safe there as if she were guarded with swords. And she knew it. Once when I was in agony I called to her in the night, and she came to me. She came with a mother's tenderness, with exquisite endearments, with the great love shining in her eyes. She leaned over

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me, she kissed me. As she bent over my bed I put my arm round her. There in the darkness were we, she and I, her kisses warm upon my lips, her hair brushing my brow, and a great love devouring us. Oh, it was hard, but I released her, put her from me, told her to go away. "I'll

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play the game fair," I said to myself. I must be very, very careful. Our position was full of danger. So I forced myself to be cold to her, and she looked both surprised and pained at the change in me. Then she seemed to put forth special efforts to please me. She changed the fashion of her hair, she

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wore pretty bows of ribbon. She talked brightly and lightly in a febrile way. She showed little coquettish tricks of manner that were charming to my mind. Ever she looked at me with wistful concern. Her heart was innocent, and she could not understand my sudden coldness. Yet that night had given me a lightning glimpse of my nature that

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frightened me. The girl was winsome beyond words, and I knew I had but to say it and she would come to me. Yet I checked myself. I retreated behind a barrier of reserve. "Play the game," I said; "play the game." So as I grew better and stronger she seemed to lose her cheerfulness. Always she had that anxious,

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wistful look. Once came a sound from the kitchen like stifled sobbing, and again in the night I heard her cry. Then the time came when I was well enough to get up, to go away. I dressed, looking like the cadaverous ghost I felt myself to be. She was there in the kitchen, sitting quietly, waiting. "Berna," I called.

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She came, with a smile lighting up her face. "I'm going." The smile vanished, and left her with that high proud look, yet behind it was a lurking fear. "You're going?" she faltered. "Yes," I said roughly, "I'm going." She did not speak. "Are you ready?" I went on. "Ready?" "Yes, you're going, too." "Where?" I took her suddenly in

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my arms. "Why, you dear little angel, to get married, of course. Come on, Berna, we'll find the nearest parson. We won't lose any more precious time." Then a great rush of tears came into her eyes. But still she hung back. She shook her head. "Why, Berna, what's the matter? Won't you come?" "I think not." "In Heaven's name,

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what is wrong, dear? Don't you love me?" "Yes, I love you. It's because I love you I won't come." "Won't you marry me?" "No, no, I can't. You know what I said before. I haven't changed any. I'm still the same--dishonoured girl. You could never give me your name." "You're as pure as the driven snow, little one." "No

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one thinks so but you, and it's that that makes all the difference. Everybody knows. No, I could never marry you, never take your name, never bind you to me." "Well, what's to be done?" "You must go away, or--stay." "Stay?" "Yes. You've been living alone with me for a month. I picked you up that night in the dance-hall.

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I had you brought here. I nursed you. Do you think people don't give us credit for the worst? We are as innocent as children, yet do you think I have a shred of reputation left? Already I am supposed to be your mistress. Everybody knows; nobody cares. There are so many living that way here. If you told them

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we were innocent they would scoff at us. If you go they will say you have discarded me." "What shall I do?" "Just stay. Oh, why can't we go on as we've been doing? It's been so like home. Don't leave me, dear. I don't want to bind you. I just want to be of some use to you, to

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help you, to be with you always. Love me for a little, anyway. Then when you're tired of me you can go, but don't go now." I was dazed, but she went on. "What does the ceremony matter? We love each other. Isn't that the real marriage? It's more; it's an ideal. We'll both be free to go if we

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wish. There will be no bonds but those of love. Is not that beautiful, two people cleaving together for love's sake, living for each other, sacrificing for each other, yet with no man-made law to tell them: 'This must ye do'? Oh, stay, stay!" Her arms were round my neck. The grey eyes were full of pleading. The sweet lips

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had the old, pathetic droop. I yielded to the empery of love. "Well," I said, "we will go on awhile, on one condition--that by-and-bye you marry me." "Yes, I will, I will; I promise. If you don't tire of me; if you are sure beyond all doubt you will never regret it, then I will marry you with the greatest

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joy in the world." So it came about that I stayed. In this infernal irony of an existence why do the good things of life always come when we no longer have the same appetite to enjoy them? The year following, in which Berna and I kept house, was not altogether a happy one. Somehow we had both just missed

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something. We had suffered too much to recover our poise very easily. We were sick, not in body, but in mind. The thought of her terrible experience haunted her. She was as sensitive as the petal of a delicate flower, and often would I see her lips quiver and a look of pain come into her eyes. Then I knew

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of what she was thinking. I knew, and I, too, suffered. I tried to make her forget, yet I could not succeed; and even in my most happy moments there was always a shadow, the shadow of Locasto; there was always a fear, the fear of his return. Yes, it seemed at times as if we were two unfortunates, as

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if our happiness had come too late, as if our lives were irretrievably shipwrecked. Locasto! where was he? For near a year had he been gone, somewhere in that wild country at the Back of Beyond. Somewhere amid the wilder peaks and valleys of the Rockies he fought his desperate battle with the Wild. There had been sinister rumours of

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two lone prospectors who had perished up in that savage country, of two bodies that lay rotting and half buried by a landslide. I had a sudden, wild hope that one of them might be my enemy; for I hated him and I would have joyed at his death. When I loved Berna most exquisitely, when I gazed with tender

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joy upon her sweetness, when, with glad, thankful eyes, I blessed her for the sympathy and sunshine of her presence, then between us would come a shadow, dark, menacing and mordant. So the joy-light would vanish from my eyes and a great sadness fall upon me. What would I do if he returned? I wondered. Perhaps if he left us

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alone I might let by-gones be by-gones; but if he ever came near her again--well, I oiled the chambers of my Colt and heard its joyous click as it revolved. "That's for him," I said, "that's for him, if by look, by word, or by act he ever molests her again." And I meant it, too. Suffering had hardened me,

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made me dangerous. I would have killed him. Then, as the months went past and the suspicion of his fate deepened almost to a certainty, I began to breathe more freely. I noticed, too, a world of difference in Berna. She grew light-hearted. She sang and laughed a good deal. The sunshine came back to her eyes, and the shadow

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seldom lingered there. Sometimes the thought that we were not legally married troubled me, but on all sides were men living with their Klondike wives, either openly or secretly, and where this domestic mnage was conducted in quietness there was little comment on it. We lived to ourselves, and for ourselves. We left our neighbours alone. We made few friends,

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and in the ferment of social life we were almost unnoticed. Of course, the Prodigal expostulated with me in severe terms. I did not attempt to argue with him. He would not have understood my point of view. There are heights and depths in life to which he with his practical mind could never attain. Yet he became very fond

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of Berna, and often visited us. "Why don't you go and get churched decently, if you love her?" he demanded. "So I will," I answered calmly; "give me a little time. Wait till we get more settled." And, indeed, we were up to our necks in business these days. Our Gold Hill property had turned out well. We had a

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gang of men employed there, and I made frequent trips out to Bonanza. We had given the Halfbreed a small interest, and installed him as manager. The Jam-wagon, too, we had employed as a sort of assistant foreman. Jim was busy installing his hydraulic plant on Ophir Creek, and altogether we had enough to think about. I had set my

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heart on making a hundred thousand dollars, and as things were looking it seemed as if two more years would bring me to that mark. "Then," said I to Berna, "we'll go and travel all over the world, and do it in style." "Will we, dear?" she answered tenderly. "But I don't want money much now, and I don't know

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that I care so much about travel either. What I would like would be to go to your home, and settle down and live quietly. What I want is a nice flower garden, and a pony to drive into town, and a home to fuss about. I would embroider, and read, and play a little, and cook things, and--just be

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with you." She was greatly interested in my description of Glengyle. She never tired of questioning me about it. Particularly was she interested in my accounts of Garry, and rather scoffed at my enthusiastic description of him. "Oh, that wonderful brother of yours! One would think he was a small god, to hear you talk. I declare I'm half afraid

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of him. Do you think he would like me?" "He would love you, little girl; any one would." "Don't be foolish," she chided me. And then she drew my head down and kissed me. I think we had the prettiest little cabin in all Dawson. The big logs were peeled smooth, and the ends squarely cut. The chinks were filled

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in with mortar. The whole was painted a deep rich crimson. The roof was covered with sheet-iron, and it, too, was painted crimson. There was a deep porch to it. It was the snuggest, neatest little home in the world. Windows hung with dainty lace curtains peeped through its clustering greenery of vines, but the glory of it all was

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the flower garden. There was a bewildering variety of flowers, but mostly I remember stocks and pinks, Iceland poppies, marguerites, asters, marigolds, verbenas, hollyhocks, pansies and petunias, growing in glorious profusion. Even the roughest miner would stand and stare at them as he tramped past on the board sidewalk. They were a mosaic of glowing colour, yet the crowning triumph

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was the poppies and sweet peas. Set in the centre of the lawn was a circle that was a leaping glow of poppies. Of every shade were they, from starry pink to luminous gold, from snowy white to passionate crimson. Like vari-coloured lamps they swung, and wakened you to wonder and joy with the exultant challenge of their beauty. And

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the sweet peas! All up the south side of the cabin they grew, overtopping the eaves in their riotous perfection. They rivalled the poppies in the radiant confusion of their colour, and they were so lavish of blossom we could not pick them fast enough. I think ours was the pioneer garden of the gold-born city, and awakened many to

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the growth-giving magic of the long, long day. And it was the joy and pride of Berna's heart. I would sit on the porch of a summer's evening when down the mighty Yukon a sunset of vast and violent beauty flamed and languished, and I would watch her as she worked among her flowers. I can see her flitting figure

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in a dress of dainty white as she hovered over a beautiful blossom. I can hear her calling me, her voice like the music of a flute, calling me to come and see some triumph of her skill. I have a picture of her coming towards me with her arms full of flowers, burying her face lovingly among the velvet

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petals, and raising it again, the sweetest flower of all. How radiantly outshone her eyes, and her face, delicate as a cameo, seemed to have stolen the fairest tints of the lily and the rose. Starry vines screened the porch, and everywhere were swinging baskets of silver birch, brimming over with the delicate green of smilax or clouded in an

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amethystine mist of lobelias. I can still see the little sitting-room with its piano, its plenitude of cushions, its book-rack, its Indian corner, its tasteful paper, its pictures, and always and everywhere flowers, flowers. The air was heavy with the fragrance of them. They glorified the crudest corner, and made our home like a nook in fairyland. I remember one

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night as I sat reading she came to me. Never did I see her look so happy. She was almost childlike in her joy. She sat down by my chair and looked up at me. Then she put her arms around me. "Oh, I'm so happy," she said with a sigh. "Are you, dearest?" I caressed the soft floss of

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her hair. "Yes, I just wish we could live like this forever;" and she nestled up to me ever so fondly. Aye, she was happy, and I will always bless the memory of those days, and thank God I was the means of bringing a little gladness into her marred life. She was happy, and yet we were living in

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what society would call sin. Conventionally we were not man and wife, yet never were man and wife more devoted, more self-respecting. Never were man and wife endowed with purer ideals, with a more exalted conception of the sanctity of love. Yet there were many in the town not half so delicate, so refined, so spiritual, who would have passed

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my little lady like a pariah. But what cared we? And perhaps it was the very greatness of my love for her that sometimes made me fear; so that often in the ecstasy of a moment I would catch my breath and wonder if it all could last. And when the poplars turned to gold, and up the valley stole

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a shuddering breath of desolation, my fear grew apace. The sky was all resplendent with the winter stars, and keen and hard their facets sparkled. And I knew that somewhere underneath those stars there slept Locasto. But was it the sleep of the living or of the dead? Would he return? Two men were crawling over the winter-locked plain. In

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the aching circle of its immensity they were like little black ants. One, the leader, was of great bulk and of a vast strength; while the other was small and wiry, of the breed that clings like a louse to life while better men perish. On all sides of the frozen lake over which they were travelling were hills covered

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with harsh pine, that pricked funereally up to the boulder-broken snows. Above that was a stormy and fantastic sea of mountains baring many a fierce peak-fang to the hollow heavens. The sky was a waxen grey, cold as a corpse-light. The snow was an immaculate shroud, unmarked by track of bird or beast. Death-sealed the land lay in its silent

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vastitude, in its despairful desolation. The small man was breaking trail. Down almost to his knees in the soft snow, he sank at every step; yet ever he dragged a foot painfully upward, and made another forward plunge. The snowshoe thong, jagged with ice, chafed him cruelly. The muscles of his legs ached as insistently as if clamped in a

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vice. He lurched forward with fatigue, so that he seemed to be ever stumbling, yet recovering himself. "Come on there, you darned little shrimp; get a move on you," growled the big man from within the frost-fringed hood of his parka. The little man started as if galvanised into sudden life. His breath steamed and almost hissed as it struck

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the icy air. At each raw intake of it his chest heaved. He beat his mittened hands on his breast to keep them from freezing. Under the hood of his parka great icicles had formed, hanging to the hairs of his beard, walrus-like, and his eyes, thickly wadded with frost, glared out with the furtive fear of a hunted beast.

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"Curse him, curse him," he whimpered; but once more he lifted those leaden snowshoes and staggered on. The big man lashed fiercely at the dogs, and as they screamed at his blows he laughed cruelly. They were straining forward in the harness, their bellies almost level with the ground, their muscles standing out like whalebone. Great, gaunt brutes they were,

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with ribs like barrel-staves, and hip-bones sharp as stakes. Their woolly coats were white with frost, their sly, slit-eyed faces ice-sheathed, their feet torn so that they left a bloody track on the snow at every step. "Mush on there, you curs, or I'll cut you in two," stormed the big man, and once again the heavy whip fell on

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the yelling pack. They were pulling for all they were worth, their heads down, their shoulders squared. Their breath came pantingly, their tongues gleamed redly, their white teeth shone. They were fighting, fighting for life, fighting to placate a cruel master in a world where all was cruelty and oppression. For there in the Winter Wild pity was not even

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a name. It was the struggle for life, desperate and never-ending. The Wild abhorred life, abhorred most of all these atoms of heat and hurry in the midst of her triumphant stillness. The Wild would crush those defiant pigmies that disputed the majesty of her invincible calm. A dog was hanging back in the harness. It whined; then as the

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husky following snapped at it savagely, it gave a lurch and fell. The big man shot forward with a sudden fury in his eyes. Swinging the heavy-thonged whip, again and again he brought it down on the writhing brute. Then he twisted the thong around his hand and belaboured its hollow ribs with the butt. It screamed for a while,

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but soon it ceased to scream; it only moaned a little. With glistening fangs and ears up-pricked the other dogs looked at their fallen comrade. They longed to leap on it, to rend its gaunt limbs apart, to tear its quivering flesh; but there was the big man with his murderous whip, and they cowered before him. The big man

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kicked the fallen dog repeatedly. The little man paused in his painful progress to look on apathetically. "You'll stave in its ribs," he remarked presently; "and then we'll never make timber by nightfall." The big man had failed in his efforts to rouse the dog. There in that lancinating cold, in an ecstasy of rage, despairfully he poised over it.

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"Who told you to put in your lip?" he snarled. "Who's running this show, you or I? I'll stave in its ribs if I choose, and I'll hitch you to the sled and make you pull your guts out, too." The little man said no more. Then, the dog still refusing to rise, the big man leapt over the harness

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and came down on the animal with both feet. There was a scream of pitiful agony, and the snap of breaking bones. But the big man slipped and fell. Down he came, and like a flash the whole pack piled onto him. For a moment there was a confused muddle of dogs and master. This was the time for which

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they had waited, these savage semi-wolves. This man had beaten them, had starved them, had been a devil to them, and now he was down and at their mercy. Ferociously they sprang on him, and their white fangs snapped like traps in his face. They fought to get at his throat. They tore at his parka. Oh, if they could

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only make their teeth meet in his warm flesh! But no; they were all tangled up in the harness, and the man was fighting like a giant. He had the leader by the throat and was using her as a shield against the others. His right hand swung the whip with flail-like blows. Foiled and confused the dogs fell to

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fighting among themselves, and triumphantly the man leapt to his feet. He was like a fiend now. Fiercely he raged among the snarling pack, kicking, clubbing, cursing, till one and all he had them beaten into cowering subjection. He was still panting from his struggle. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were glittering. He strode up to the

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little man, who had watched the performance stolidly. "Why didn't you help me, you dirty little whelp?" he hissed. "You wanted to see them chew me up; you know you did. You'd like to have them rip me to ribbons. You wouldn't move a finger to save me. Oh, I know, I know. I've had enough of you this trip

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to last me a lifetime. You've bucked me right along. Now, blast your dirty little soul, I hate you, and for the rest of the way I'm going to make your life hell. See! Now I'll begin." The little man was afraid. He seemed to grow smaller, while over him towered the other, dark, fierce and malignant. The little man

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was desperate. Defensively he crouched, yet the next instant he was overthrown. Then, as he lay sprawling in the snow, the big man fell to lashing him with the whip. Time after time he struck, till the screams of his victim became one long, drawn-out wail of agony. Then he desisted. Jerking the other on his feet once more, he

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bade him go on breaking trail. Again they struggled on. The light was beginning to fail, and there was no thought in their minds but to reach that dark belt of timber before darkness came. There was no sound but the crunch of their snowshoes, the panting of the dogs, the rasping of the sleigh. When they paused the silence

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seemed to fall on them like a blanket. There was something awful in the quality of this deathly silence. It was as if something material, something tangible, hovered over them, closed in on them, choked them, throttled them. It was almost like a Presence. Weary and worn were men and dogs as they struggled onwards in the growing gloom, but

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because of the feeling in his heart the little man no longer was conscious of bodily pain. It was black murder that raged there. With straining sinews and bones that cracked, the dogs bent to a heavy pull, while at the least sign of shirking down swished the relentless whip. And the big man, as if proud of his strength,

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gazed insolently round on the Wild. He was at home in this land, this stark wolf-land, so callous, so cruel. Was he not cruel, too? Surely this land cowered before him. Its hardships could not daunt him, nor its terrors dismay. As he urged on his bloody-footed dogs, he exulted greatly. Of all Men of the High North was he

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not king? At last they reached the forest fringe, and after a few harsh directions he had the little man making camp. The little man worked with a strange willingness. All his taciturnity had gone. As he gathered the firewood and filled the Yukon stove, he hummed a merry air. He had the water boiling and soon there was the

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fragrance of tea in the little tent. He produced sourdough bread (which he fried in bacon fat), and some dried moose-meat. To men of the trail this was a treat. They ate ravenously, but they did not speak. Yet the little man was oddly cheerful. Time and again the big man looked at him suspiciously. Outside it was a steely

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night, with an icicle of a moon. The cold leapt on one savagely. To step from the tent was like plunging into icy water, yet within those canvas walls the men were warm and snug. The stove crackled its cheer. A grease-light sputtered, and by its rays the little man was mending his ice-stiffened moccasins. He hummed an Irish air,

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and he seemed to be tickled with some thought he had. "Stop that tune," growled the other. "If you don't know anything else, cut it out. I'm sick of it." The little man shut up meekly. Again there was silence, broken by a whining and a scratching outside. It was the five dogs crying for their supper, crying for the

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frozen fish they had earned so well. They wondered why it was not forthcoming. When they received it they would lie on it, to warm it with the heat of their bodies, and then gnaw off the thawed portions. They were very wise, these dogs. But to-night there was no fish, and they whined for it. "Dog feed all gone?"

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"Yep," said the small man. "Hell! I'll silence these brutes anyway." He went to the door and laid onto them so that they slunk away into the shadows. But they did not bury themselves in the snow and sleep. They continued to prowl round the tent, hunger-mad and desperate. "We've only got enough grub left for ourselves now," said the

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big man; "and none too much at that. I guess I'll put you on half-rations." He laughed as if it was the hugest joke. Then rolling himself in a robe, he lay down and slept. The little man did not sleep. He was still turning over the thought that had come to him. Outside in the atrocious cold the whining

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malamutes crept nearer and nearer. Savage were they, Indian raised and sired by a wolf. And now, in the agonies of hunger, they cried for fish, and there was none for them, only kicks and curses. Oh, it was a world of ghastly cruelty! They howled their woes to the weary moon. "Short rations, indeed," mumbled the little man. He

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crawled into his sleeping bag, but he did not close his eyes. He was watching. About dawn he rose. An evil dawn it was, sallow, sinister and askew. The little man selected the heavy-handled whip for the job. Carefully he felt its butt, then he struck. It was a shrewd blow and a neatly delivered, for the little man had

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been in the business before. It fell on the big man's head, and he crumpled up. Then the little man took some rawhide thongs and trussed up his victim. There lay the big man, bound and helpless, with a clotted blood-hole in his black hair. Then the little man gathered up the rest of the provisions. He looked around carefully,

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as if fearful of leaving anything behind. He made a pack of the food and lashed it on his back. Now he was ready to start. He knew that within fifty miles, travelling to the south, he would strike a settlement. He was safe. He turned to where lay the unconscious body of his partner. Again and again he kicked

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it; he cursed it; he spat on it. Then, after a final look of gloating hate, he went off and left the big man to his fate. At last, at long last, the Worm had turned. The dogs! The dogs were closing in. Nearer and nearer they drew, headed by a fierce Mackenzie River bitch. They wondered why their master

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did not wake; they wondered why the little tent was so still; why no plume of smoke rose from the slim stovepipe. All was oddly quiet and lifeless. No curses greeted them; no whiplash cut into them; no strong arm jerked them over the harness. Perhaps it was a primordial instinct that drew them on, that made them strangely bold.

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