The Last of the Plainsmen by Zane Grey (bill gates best books .TXT) 📖

the shore of Artilery Lake. At dusk the clear, silent air opened to the sound of a long, haunting mourn.

“Ho! Ho!” called Rea. His hoarse, deep voice rang defiance to the foe.

While he built a fire before the tepee, Jones strode up and down, suddenly to whip out his knife and make for the tame little muskoxen, now digging the snow. Then he wheeled abruptly and held out the blade to Rea.

“What for?” demanded the giant.

“We’ve got to eat,” said Jones. “And I can’t kill one of them. I can’t, so you do it.”

“Kill one of our calves?” roared Rea. “Not till hell freezes over! I ain’t commenced to get hungry. Besides, the wolves are going to eat us, calves and all.”

Nothing more was said. They ate their last biscuit. Jones packed the calves away in the tepee, and turned to the dogs. All day they had worried him; something was amiss with them, and even as he went among them a fierce fight broke out. Jones saw it was unusual, for the attacked dogs showed craven fear, and the attacking ones a howling, savage intensity that surprised him. Then one of the vicious brutes rolled his eyes, frothed at the mouth, shuddered and leaped in his harness, vented a hoarse howl and fell back shaking and retching.

“My God! Rea!” cried Jones in horror. “Come here! Look! That dog is dying of rabies! Hydrophobia! The white wolves have hydrophobia!”

“If you ain’t right!” exclaimed Rea. “I seen a dog die of thet onct, an’ he acted like this. An’ thet one ain’t all. Look, Buff! look at them green eyes! Didn’t I say the white wolves was hell? We’ll have to kill every dog we’ve got.”

Jones shot the dog, and soon afterward three more that manifested signs of the disease. It was an awful situation. To kill all the dogs meant simply to sacrifice his life and Rea’s; it meant abandoning hope of ever reaching the cabin. Then to risk being bitten by one of the poisoned, maddened brutes, to risk the most horrible of agonizing deaths—that was even worse.

“Rea, we’ve one chance,” cried Jones, with pale face. “Can you hold the dogs, one by one, while muzzle them?”

“Ho! Ho!” replied the giant. Placing his bowie knife between his teeth, with gloved hands he seized and dragged one of the dogs to the campfire. The animal whined and protested, but showed no ill spirit. Jones muzzled his jaws tightly with strong cords. Another and another were tied up, then one which tried to snap at Jones was nearly crushed by the giant’s grip. The last, a surly brute, broke out into mad ravings the moment he felt the touch of Jones’s hands, and writhing, frothing, he snapped Jones’s sleeve. Rea jerked him loose and held him in the air with one arm, while with the other he swung the bowie. They hauled the dead dogs out on the snow, and returning to the fire sat down to await the cry they expected.

Presently, as darkness fastened down tight, it came—the same cry, wild, haunting, mourning. But for hours it was not repeated.

“Better rest some,” said Rea; “I’ll call you if they come.”

Jones dropped to sleep as he touched his blankets. Morning dawned for him, to find the great, dark, shadowy figure of the giant nodding over the fire.

“How’s this? Why didn’t you call me?” demanded Jones.

“The wolves only fought a little over the dead dogs.”

On the instant Jones saw a wolf skulking up the bank. Throwing up his rifle, which he had carried out of the tepee, he took a snap-shot at the beast. It ran off on three legs, to go out of sight over the hank. Jones scrambled up the steep, slippery place, and upon arriving at the ridge, which took several moments of hard work, he looked everywhere for the wolf. In a moment he saw the animal, standing still some hundred or more paces down a hollow. With the quick report of Jones’s second shot, the wolf fell and rolled over. The hunter ran to the spot to find the wolf was dead. Taking hold of a front paw, he dragged the animal over the snow to camp. Rea began to skin the animal, when suddenly he exclaimed:

“This fellow’s hind foot is gone!”

“That’s strange. I saw it hanging by the skin as the wolf ran up the bank. I’ll look for it.”

By the bloody trail on the snow he returned to the place where the wolf had fallen, and thence back to the spot where its leg had been broken by the bullet. He discovered no sign of the foot.

“Didn’t find it, did you?” said Rea.

“No, and it appears odd to me. The snow is so hard the foot could not have sunk.”

“Well, the wolf ate his foot, thet’s what,” returned Rea. “Look at them teeth marks!”

“Is it possible?” Jones stared at the leg Rea held up.

“Yes, it is. These wolves are crazy at times. You’ve seen thet. An’ the smell of blood, an’ nothin’ else, mind you, in my opinion, made him eat his own’ foot. We’ll cut him open.”

Impossible as the thing seemed to Jones—and he could not but believe further evidence of his own’ eyes—it was even stranger to drive a train of mad dogs. Yet that was what Rea and he did, and lashed them, beat them to cover many miles in the long day’s journey. Rabies had broken out in several dogs so alarmingly that Jones had to kill them at the end of the run. And hardly had the sound of the shots died when faint and far away, but clear as a bell, bayed on the wind the same haunting mourn of a trailing wolf.

“Ho! Ho! where are the wolves?” cried Rea.

A waiting, watching, sleepless night followed. Again the hunters faced the south. Hour after hour, riding, running, walking, they urged the poor, jaded, poisoned dogs. At dark they reached the head of Artillery Lake. Rea placed the tepee between two huge stones. Then the hungry hunters, tired, grim, silent, desperate, awaited the familiar cry.

It came on the cold wind, the same haunting mourn, dreadful in its significance.

Absence of fire inspirited the wary wolves. Out of the pale gloom gaunt white forms emerged, agile and stealthy, slipping on velvet-padded feet, closer, closer, closer. The dogs wailed in terror.

“Into the tepee!” yelled Rea.

Jones plunged in after his comrade. The despairing howls of the dogs, drowned in more savage, frightful sounds, knelled one tragedy and foreboded a more terrible one. Jones looked out to see a white mass, like leaping waves of a rapid.

“Pump lead into thet!” cried Rea.

Rapidly Jones emptied his rifle into the white fray. The mass split; gaunt wolves leaped high to fall back dead; others wriggled and limped away; others dragged their hind quarters; others darted at the tepee.

“No more cartridges!” yelled Jones.

The giant grabbed the ax, and barred the door of the tepee. Crash! the heavy iron cleaved the skull of the first brute. Crash! it lamed the second. Then Rea stood in the narrow passage between the rocks, waiting with uplifted ax. A shaggy, white demon, snapping his jaws, sprang like a dog. A sodden, thudding blow met him and he slunk away without a cry. Another rabid beast launched his white body at the giant. Like a flash the ax descended. In agony the wolf fell, to spin round and round, running on his hind legs, while his head and shoulders and forelegs remained in the snow. His back was broken.

Jones crouched in the opening of the tepee, knife in hand. He doubted his senses. This was a nightmare. He saw two wolves leap at once. He heard the crash of the ax; he saw one wolf go down and the other slip under the swinging weapon to grasp the giant’s hip. Jones’s heard the rend of cloth, and then he pounced like a cat, to drive his knife into the body of the beast. Another nimble foe lunged at Rea, to sprawl broken and limp from the iron. It was a silent fight. The giant shut the way to his comrade and the calves; he made no outcry; he needed but one blow for every beast; magnificent, he wielded death and faced it—silent. He brought the white wild dogs of the north down with lightning blows, and when no more sprang to the attack, down on the frigid silence he rolled his cry: “Ho! Ho!”

“Rea! Rea! how is it with you?” called Jones, climbing out.

“A torn coat—no more, my lad.”

Three of the poor dogs were dead; the fourth and last gasped at the hunters and died.

The wintry night became a thing of half-conscious past, a dream to the hunters, manifesting its reality only by the stark, stiff bodies of wolves, white in the gray morning.

“If we can eat, we’ll make the cabin,” said Rea. “But the dogs an’ wolves are poison.”

“Shall I kill a calf? “Asked Jones.

“Ho! Ho! when hell freezes over—if we must!”

Jones found one 45-90 cartridge in all the outfit, and with that in the chamber of his rifle, once more struck south. Spruce trees began to show on the barrens and caribou trails roused hope in the hearts of the hunters.

“Look in the spruces,” whispered Jones, dropping the rope of his sled. Among the black trees gray objects moved.

“Caribou!” said Rea. “Hurry! Shoot! Don’t miss!”

But Jones waited. He knew the value of the last bullet. He had a hunter’s patience. When the caribou came out in an open space, Jones whistled. It was then the rifle grew set and fixed; it was then the red fire belched forth.

At four hundred yards the bullet took some fraction of time to strike. What a long time that was! Then both hunters heard the spiteful spat of the lead. The caribou fell, jumped up, ran down the slope, and fell again to rise no more.

An hour of rest, with fire and meat, changed the world to the hunters; still glistening, it yet had lost its bitter cold its deathlike clutch.

“What’s this?” cried Jones.

Moccasin tracks of different sizes, all toeing north, arrested the hunters.

“Pointed north! Wonder what thet means?” Rea plodded on, doubtfully shaking his head.

Night again, clear, cold, silver, starlit, silent night! The hunters rested, listening ever for the haunting mourn. Day again, white, passionless, monotonous, silent day. The hunters traveled on—on—on, ever listening for the haunting mourn.

Another dusk found them within thirty miles of their cabin. Only one more day now.

Rea talked of his furs, of the splendid white furs he could not bring. Jones talked of his little muskoxen calves and joyfully watched them dig for moss in the snow.

Vigilance relaxed that night. Outworn nature rebelled, and both hunters slept.

Rea awoke first, and kicking off the blankets, went out. His terrible roar of rage made Jones fly to his side.

Under the very shadow of the tepee, where the little muskoxen had been tethered, they lay stretched out pathetically on crimson snow—stiff stone-cold, dead. Moccasin tracks told the story of the tragedy.

Jones leaned against his comrade.

The giant raised his huge fist.

“Jackoway out of wood! Jackoway out of wood!”

Then he choked.

The north wind, blowing through the thin, dark, weird spruce trees, moaned and seemed to sigh, “Naza! Naza! Naza!”

 

CHAPTER 11. ON TO THE SIWASH

“Who all was doin’ the talkin’ last night?” asked Frank next morning, when we were having a late breakfast. “Cause I’ve a joke on somebody. Jim he talks in his sleep often, an’ last night after you did finally get settled down, Jim he up in his sleep an’ says: ‘Shore he’s windy as hell!