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- Enid Blyton Books and Book Reviews | LoveReading4Kids
- 100 Great Works of Dystopian Fiction
C'n cook a meal o' vittles that'd make yo' mouth wateh, an' jest nach'lly handles dogs like an ol' tillicum. An' I come away so's the kid'll have the claim cleah. Fact is, I ain't took a drink fo' quite a spell. Kind o' got out o' the notion, somehow. An' I recollect that it [73] ain't neveh got me nawthin' but misery an' an empty poke. But, it ain't so much that. It's—well, it's like this: Sam Mo'gan, he ain't heah no mo' to look afteh the kid, an'—yo' see, the li'l scamp, he's kind o' got it in his head that they ain't no one jest like me—kind o' thinks I really 'mount to somethin', an' what I say an' do is 'bout right.
It don't stand to reason I c'n make him b'lieve 'taint no good to drink licker, an' then go ahead an' drink it myself—does it, now? After supper the men drifted out by twos and threes for their nightly rounds of the camp's tawdry places of amusement. Waseche Bill, declining their invitations, sat alone by the stove, thinking.
The man was lonely. Until this night he had had no time to realize how much he missed his little partner, and his thoughts [74] lingered over the long evenings when they talked together in the cabin, and the boy would read aloud from the illustrated magazines.
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Course, it'll be kind o' hard on him, fust off, me'be. Same as me. But it's bettah fo' him in the end. Why, his claim's good fo' a million!
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They-all think as much of the boy as what I do. Now, if the kid's jes' like him—s'pose he follers ye? He's dead—that's where he is! Leastwise, he ain't never be'n heerd from after he started back fer the Lillimuit. Not on yer life I don't—not [76] to the Lillimuit! Not fer all the gold in the world.
Folks ain't in no shape to claim! They ain't no one ever come back, 'cept Carlson—an' he was loco, an' went in agin—an' that's the last of Carlson. They's a plenty fer two in the Ten Bow claim an' pardners is pardners.
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Sorry ye won't jine me. I'll be rollin' in, now. Early in the evening of the fourth day after [77] Waseche Bill's departure for the unknown Lillimuit Connie Morgan swung McDougall's ten-dog team into Eagle. The boy, heeding the advice of Black Jack Demaree, had curbed his impatience and religiously held himself to a ten-hour schedule, and the result was easily apparent in the way the dogs dashed up the steep trail and swung into the well-packed street of the big camp. In front of a wooden building marked "Post Office," he halted. A large man, just emerging from the door, stared in amusement at the tiny parka -clad figure that confronted him.
Come on, I'll give ye a hand with the dogs—supper'll be about ready. That evening Connie Morgan found himself the centre of an interested group of miners—rough, kindly men, who welcomed him warmly, asked the news of Ten Bow, and recounted in awkward, hesitating sentences stories of his father.
Before turning into the bunk assigned to him, the boy sought out the proprietor of the hotel, who sat in the centre of an interested group, discussing local politics with a man from Circle. Big Jim Sontag chuckled way back in his beard as he regarded his littlest guest. Shove yo' poke in yo' pocket. Yo' welcome to stop undeh my roof long as yo' want to. Why, if I was to cha'ge yo' fo' boa'd an' lodgin' afteh what yo' pap done fo' me, up on Tillimik—hope the wolves'll eat me, hide an' taller!
Waseche's a man—an' a good one.
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He knows what he's up agin', an' if he wants to take a chanct that's his [80] business. But, jes' between us, Waseche won't come back. I've got to find him! We owes it to you, an' we owes it to Sam Morgan. They's too many a good man's bones layin' somewhere amongst them fiendish peaks an' passes, now.
Enid Blyton Books and Book Reviews | LoveReading4Kids
No, son, you c'n stay in Eagle as long as you like, an' welcome. Or, you c'n hit the trail fer Ten Bow. But you can't strike out fer the Lillimuit— an' that goes! For the first time in his life, Connie Morgan [81] faced the opposition of men. Instinctively he knew that every man in the room was his friend, but never in his life had he felt so helplessly alone.
What could one small boy do in the face of the ultimatum of these men of the North? Tears rushed to his eyes and, for a moment, threatened to overflow upon his cheeks, but, in that moment, there arose before him the face of Waseche Bill—his "pardner. We've shore got to keep an eye on that young un, 'cause he aims to give us the slip in the mo'nin'.
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Connie Morgan, for all his tender years, knew men. He knew, when he left the group about the stove, that they would expect him to try to slip out of Eagle, and that if he waited until morning he would have no chance in the world of eluding their vigilance. Minutes counted, for he also knew that once on the trail, he need have no [83] fear of pursuit; for no team in the Yukon country, save only Dutch Henry's Hudson Bays, could come anywhere near the trail record of McDougall's ten gaunt malamutes.
Pausing only long enough in the little room with its scrawling "No. With feverish haste he harnessed the dogs and opened the gate. In the shadow of the building he paused and peered anxiously up and down the street. No one was in sight and, through the heavily frosted windows of the buildings, dull squares of light threw but faint illumination upon the deserted thoroughfare.
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As he passed a store the door opened and a man stood outlined in the patch of yellow light. Connie's heart leaped to his throat, [84] but the man only stared in evident surprise that any one would be hitting the trail at that time of night, and then the door closed and the boy breathed again. He wished that he could stop and lay in a supply of grub, but dared not risk it. Better pay twice the price to some prospector, or trapper, than risk being stopped. Silently the sled glided over the smooth trail and slanted out onto the river with Boris, Mutt, and Slasher capering in its wake.
Connie had only a vague notion as to the location of the unknown Lillimuit. He knew that it lay somewhere among the unmapped headwaters of Peel River, and that he must head up the Tatonduk and cross a divide. Toward morning he halted at the mouth of a river that flowed in from the north-east. A little-used trail was faintly discernible and the boy called the old lead dog. The next morning there was consternation in Eagle, and a half-dozen dog sleds hit the trail. About ten miles up the Tatonduk, the men of Eagle met a half-breed trapper with an empty sled.
Go like de wolf! Stop on my camp. Buy all de grub. Nev' min' de cost—hur' up! He try for catch white man, go by four sleeps ago. Try for mak' Lillimuit. Him no come back. Disregarding the prediction of the half-breed, Joe, Fiddle Face, and big Jim Sontag continued their pursuit of the flying dog team, despite the [86] fact that as they progressed the trail grew colder.
After many days they came to the foot of the great white divide and camped beneath overcast skies, and in the morning a storm broke with unbelievable fury. Every man, woman, and child in eastern Alaska remembers the great blizzard that whirled out of the north on the morning of the third of December and raged unabated for four days, ceased as suddenly as it started, and then, for four days more, roared terrifically into the north again.
On the ninth day, the three men burrowed from their shelter at the foot of a perpendicular cliff. The trail was obliterated, and on every hand they were confronted by huge drifts from ten to thirty feet in height, while above them, clinging precariously to the steep side of the mountain that divided them from the dreaded unknown, were vast ridges of snow that momentarily threatened to tear loose and bury them beneath a mighty avalanche.
Silently the men stared into each other's faces, and then—silently, for none dared trust himself to speak—these big men of the North harnessed their dogs and began the laborious homeward journey with heavy hearts. And, at that very moment, a small boy, eighty miles beyond the impassable barrier of the snow-capped divide, tunnelled through a huge drift that sealed the mouth of an ice cavern in the side of an inland glacier, and looked out upon the bewildering tangle of gleaming peaks.
Thanks to the unerring nose of old Boris, and the speed of McDougall's sled dogs, the trail of Waseche had each day become warmer, and the night before the storm, when Connie camped in the convenient ice-cavern, he judged his partner to be only a day ahead. When the storm continued day after day, he chafed at the delay, but comforted himself with the thought that Waseche must also camp. As he stood at the mouth of his cave gazing [88] at the unfamiliar mountains, towering range upon range, with their peaks glittering in the cold rays of the morning sun, old Boris crowded past him and plunged into the unbroken whiteness of the little valley.
Round and round he circled with lowered head. Up and down the jagged ice wall of the glacier he ran, sniffing the snow and whining with eagerness to pick up the trail that he had followed for so many days.