"Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow morning and witness the start,"

grinned Brent, "In the meantime, I am going to make the most of the fleeting hours." He reached for the bottle, and Reeves held up a warning hand:

"You won't be in any shape to hit the trail in the morning, if you go too heavy on that."

Brent laughed: "Again, I may say, you don't know Joe Pete."

At seven o'clock in the morning Reeves hurried to Brent's cabin. The snow about the door lay a foot deep, trackless and unbroken. Reeves'

heart gave a bound of apprehension. There was no dog team nor sled in evidence, nor was there any sign that the Indian had returned. A dull light glowed through the heavily frosted pane and without waiting to knock Reeves pushed open the door and entered.

Brent greeted him with drunken enthusiasm: "H'l'o, Reeves, ol' top! Glad to she you. S'down an' have a good ol' drink! Wait'll I shave. h.e.l.l of a job to shave." He stood before the mirror weaving back and forth, with a razor in one hand and a shaving brush in the other, and a gla.s.s half full of whiskey upon the washstand before him, into which he gravely from time to time dipped the shaving brush, and rubbing it vigorously upon the soap, endeavored to lather the inch-long growth of beard that covered his face. Despite his apprehension as to what had become of the paragon, Joe Pete, Reeves was forced to laugh. He laughed and laughed, until Brent turned around and regarded him gravely: "Wash matter? Wash joke? Wait a minuit lesh have a li'l drink." He reached for the bottle, that sat nearly empty upon the table, and guzzled a swallow of the liquor. "d.a.m.n near all gone. Have to get nosher one when Joe Pete comes."

"When Joe Pete comes!" cried Reeves, "You'll never see Joe Pete again!

He's skipped out!"

"Skipped out? Washa mean skipped out?"

"I mean that it's a quarter past seven and he hasn't showed up and you told him you would start at eight."

Brent laid his razor upon the table: "Quar' pasht seven? Quar pasht seven isn't eight 'clock. You don' know Joe Pete."

"But, man, you're not ready. There's nothing packed. And you're as drunk as a lord!"

"Sure, I'm drunk's a lord--drunker'n two lords--lords ain't so d.a.m.n'

drunk. If I don't get packed by eight 'clock I'll have to go wishout packin'. You don' know Joe Pete."

At a quarter of eight there was a commotion before the door, and the huge Indian entered the room, dressed for the trail. He stood still, gave one comprehensive look around the room, and silently fell to work.

He examined rapidly everything in the cabin, throwing several articles into a pile. Brent's tooth brush, comb, shaving outfit, and mirror he made into a pack which he carried to the sled, returning a moment later with a brand new outfit of clothing. He placed it upon the chair and motioned Brent to get into it. But Brent stood and stared at it owlishly. Whereupon, without a word, the Indian seized him and with one or two jerks stripped him to the skin and proceeded to dress him as one would dress a baby. Brent protested weakly, but all to no purpose.

Reeves helped and soon Brent was clothed for the winter trail even to moose hide parka. He grinned foolishly, and drank the remaining liquor from the bottle. "Whad' I tell you?" he asked solemnly of Reeves. "You don't know Joe Pete."

The Indian consulted a huge silver watch, and returning it to his pocket, sat upon the edge of the bunk, and stared at the wall. Brent puttered futilely about the room, and addressed the Indian. "We got to get a bottle of hooch. I got to have jus' one more drink. Jus' one more drink, an' then to h.e.l.l wish it."

The Indian paid not the slightest heed, but continued to stare at the wall. A few minutes later he again consulted his watch, and rising, grasped Brent about the middle and carried him, struggling and protesting out the door and lashed him securely to the sled.

Reeves watched the proceeding in amazement, and almost before he realized what was happening, the Indian had taken his place beside the dogs. He cracked his whip, shouted an unintelligible command, and the team started. Upon the top of the load, Brent wagged a feeble farewell to Reeves: "Sho long, ol' man--she you later--I got to go now. You don'

know Joe Pete."

The outfit headed down the trail to the river. Reeves, standing beside the door of the deserted cabin, glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He turned, closed the door and started for home chuckling. The chuckle became a laugh, and he smote his thigh and roared, until some laborers going to work stopped to look at him. Then he composed himself and went home to tell his wife.

CHAPTER XII

ON THE TRAIL

At noon Joe Pete swung the outfit into the lee of a thicket, built a fire, and brewed tea. Brent woke up and the Indian loosened the _babiche_ line that had secured him, coiled the rope carefully, and without a word, went on with his preparation of the meal. Brent staggered and stumbled about in the snow in an effort to restore circulation to his numbed arms and legs. His head ached fiercely, and when he could in a measure control his movements, he staggered to the fire. Joe Pete tendered him a cup of steaming tea. Brent smelled of the liquid with disgust: "To h.e.l.l with tea!" he growled thickly, "I want hooch. I've got to have it--just one drink."

Joe Pete drank a swallow of tea, and munched unconcernedly at a piece of pilot bread.

"Give me a drink of hooch! Didn't you hear me? I need it," demanded Brent.

"Hooch no good. Tea good. Ain' got no hooch--not wan drink."

"No hooch!" cried Brent, "I tell you I've got to have it! I thought I could get away with it, this trailing without hooch--but, I can't. How far have we come?"

"Bout 'leven mile."

"Well, just as soon as you finish eating you turn that dog team around.

We're going back." Brent was consumed by a torturing thirst. He drank the tea in great gulps and extended his cup for more. He drank a second and a third cup, and the Indian offered him some bread. Brent shook his head:

"I can't eat. I'm sick. Hurry up and finish, and hit the back-trail as fast as those dogs can travel."

Joe Pete finished his meal, washed the cups, and returned the cooking outfit to its appointed place on the load.

"You goin' ride?" he asked.

"No, I'll walk. Got to walk a while or I'll freeze."

The Indian produced from the pack a pair of snowshoes and helped Brent to fasten them on. Then he swung the dogs onto the trail and continued on his course.

"Here you!" cried Brent, "Pull those dogs around! We're going back to Dawson."

Joe Pete halted the dogs and walked back to where Brent stood beside the doused fire: "Mebbe-so we goin' back Dawson," he said, "But, firs' we goin' Fo't Norman. You tak hol' tail-rope, an' mush."

A great surge of anger swept Brent. His eyes, red-rimmed and swollen from liquor, and watery from the glare of the new fallen snow, fairly blazed. He took a step forward and raised his arm as though to strike the Indian: "What do you mean? d.a.m.n you! Who is running this outfit?

I've changed my mind. I'm not going to Fort Norman."

Joe Pete did not even step back from the up-lifted arm. "You ain' change _my_ min' none. You droonk. I ain' hear you talk. Bye-m-bye, you git sober, Joe Pete hear you talk. You grab tail-rope now or I tie you oop agin."

Suddenly Brent realized that he was absolutely in this man's power. For the first time in his life he felt utterly helpless. The rage gave place to a nameless fear: "How far is it to Fort Norman?" he asked, in an unsteady voice.

"'Bout fi' hondre mile."

"Five hundred miles! I can't stand the trip, I tell you. I'm in no condition to stand it. I'll die!"

The Indian shrugged--a shrug that conveyed to Brent more plainly than words that Joe Pete conceded the point, and that if it so happened, his demise would be merely an incident upon the trail to Fort Norman. Brent realized the futility of argument. As well argue with one of the eternal peaks that flung skyward in the distance. For he, at least, knew Joe Pete. In the enthusiasm of his great plan for self redemption he had provided against this very contingency. He had deliberately chosen as his companion and guide the one man in all the North who, come what may, would deviate no hair's breadth from his first instructions. And now, he stood there in the snow and cursed himself for a fool. The Indian pointed to the tail-rope, and muttering curses, Brent reached down and picked it up, and the outfit started.

So far they had fairly good going. The course lay up Indian River, beyond the head reaches of which they would cross the Bonnet Plume pa.s.s, and upon the east slope of the divide, pick up one of the branches of the Gravel and follow that river to the Mackenzie. Joe Pete traveled ahead, breaking trail for the dogs, and before they had gone a mile Brent was puffing and blowing in his effort to keep up. His grip tightened on the tail-rope. The dogs were fairly pulling him along. At each step it was becoming more and more difficult to lift his feet. He stumbled and fell, dragged for a moment, and let go. He lay with his face in the snow. He did not try to rise. The snow felt good to his throbbing temples. He hoped the Indian would not miss him for a long, long time. Better lie here and freeze than endure the h.e.l.l of that long snow trail. Then Joe Pete was lifting him from the snow and carrying him to the sled. He struggled feebly, and futilely he cursed, but the effort redoubled the ache in his head, and a terrible nausea seized him, from which he emerged weak and unprotesting while the Indian bound him upon the load.

At dark they camped. Brent sitting humped up beside the fire while Joe Pete set up the little tent and cooked supper. Brent drank scalding tea in gulps. Again he begged in vain for hooch--and was offered pilot bread and moose meat. He tried a piece of meat but his tortured stomach rejected it, whereupon Joe Pete brewed stronger tea, black, and bitter as gall, and with that Brent drenched his stomach and a.s.suaged after a fashion his gnawing thirst. Wrapped in blankets he crept beneath his rabbit robe--but not to sleep. The Indian had built up the fire and thrown the tent open to its heat. For an hour Brent tossed about, bathed in cold sweat. Things crawled upon the walls of the tent, mingling with the shadows of the dancing firelight. He closed his eyes, and buried his head in his blankets, but the things were there too--twisting, writhing things, fantastic and horrible in color, and form, and unutterably loathsome in substance. And beyond the walls of the tent--out in the night--were the voices--the voices that taunted and tormented. He threw back his robe, and crawled to the fireside, where he sat wrapped in blankets. He threw on more wood from the pile the Indian had placed ready to hand, so that the circle of the firelight broadened, and showers of red sparks shot upward to mingle with the yellow stars.

But, it was of no use. The crawling, loathsome shapes writhed and twisted from the very flames--laughed and danced in the lap and the lick of the red flames of fire. Brent cowered against his treetrunk and stared, his red-rimmed eyes stretched wide with horror, while his blood seemed to freeze, and his heart turned to water within him. From the fire, from beyond the fire, and from the blackness of the forest behind him crept a _thing_--shapeless, and formless, it was, of a substance vicious and slimy. It was of no color, but an unwholesome luminosity radiated from its changing outlines--an all encompa.s.sing ever approaching thing of horror, it drew gradually nearer and nearer, engulfing him--smothering him. He could reach out now and touch it with his hands. His fingers sank deep in its slime and--with a wild shriek, Brent leaped from his blankets, and ran barefooted into the forest. Joe Pete found him a few minutes later, lying in the snow with a rapidly swelling blue lump on his forehead where he had crashed against a tree in his headlong flight. He picked him up and carried him to the tent where he wrapped him in his blankets and thrust him under the robe with a compress of snow on his head.

In the morning, Brent, babbling for whiskey, drank tea. And at the noon camp he drank much strong tea and ate a little pilot bread and a small piece of moose meat. He walked about five miles in the afternoon before he was again tied on the sled, and that night he helped Joe Pete set up the tent. For supper he drank a quart of strong bitter tea, and ate more bread and meat, and that night, after tossing restlessly till midnight, he fell asleep. The shapes came, and the voices, but they seemed less loathsome than the night before. They took definite concrete shapes, shapes of things Brent knew, but of impossible color. Cerese lizards and little pink snakes skipped lightly across the walls of the tent, and bunches of luminous angleworms writhed harmlessly in the dark corners.

The skipping and writhing annoyed, disgusted, but inspired no terror, so Brent slept.

The third day he ate some breakfast, and did two stretches on snowshoes during the day that totaled sixteen or eighteen miles, and that night he devoured a hearty meal and slept the sleep of the weary.