The Sun-Dog Trail
SITKA CHARLEY smoked his pipe and gazed thoughtfully at the POLICEGAZETTE illustration on the wall. For half an hour he had beensteadily regarding it, and for half an hour I had been slylywatching him. Something was going on in that mind of his, and,whatever it was, I knew it was well worth knowing. He had livedlife, and seen things, and performed that prodigy of prodigies,namely, the turning of his back upon his own people, and, in so faras it was possible for an Indian, becoming a white man even in hismental processes. As he phrased it himself, he had come into thewarm, sat among us, by our fires, and become one of us. He hadnever learned to read nor write, but his vocabulary was remarkable,and more remarkable still was the completeness with which he hadassumed the white man's point of view, the white man's attitudetoward things.We had struck this deserted cabin after a hard day on trail. Thedogs had been fed, the supper dishes washed, the beds made, and wewere now enjoying that most delicious hour that comes each day, andbut once each day, on the Alaskan trail, the hour when nothingintervenes between the tired body and bed save the smoking of theevening pipe. Some former denizen of the cabin had decorated itswalls with illustrations torn from magazines and newspapers, and itwas these illustrations that had held Sitka Charley's attentionfrom the moment of our arrival two hours before. He had studiedthem intently, ranging from one to another and back again, and Icould see that there was uncertainty in his mind, and bepuzzlement."Well?" I finally broke the silence.He took the pipe from his mouth and said simply, "I do notunderstand."He smoked on again, and again removed the pipe, using it to pointat the POLICE GAZETTE illustration."That picture - what does it mean? I do not understand."I looked at the picture. A man, with a preposterously wicked face,his right hand pressed dramatically to his heart, was fallingbackward to the floor. Confronting him, with a face that was acomposite of destroying angel and Adonis, was a man holding asmoking revolver."One man is killing the other man," I said, aware of a distinctbepuzzlement of my own and of failure to explain."Why?" asked Sitka Charley."I do not know," I confessed."That picture is all end," he said. "It has no beginning.""It is life," I said."Life has beginning," he objected.I was silenced for the moment, while his eyes wandered on to anadjoining decoration, a photographic reproduction of somebody's"Leda and the Swan.""That picture," he said, "has no beginning. It has no end. I donot understand pictures.""Look at that picture," I commanded, pointing to a thirddecoration. "It means something. Tell me what it means to you."He studied it for several minutes."The little girl is sick," he said finally. "That is the doctorlooking at her. They have been up all night - see, the oil is lowin the lamp, the first morning light is coming in at the window.It is a great sickness; maybe she will die, that is why the doctorlooks so hard. That is the mother. It is a great sickness,because the mother's head is on the table and she is crying.""How do you know she is crying?" I interrupted. "You cannot seeher face. Perhaps she is asleep."Sitka Charley looked at me in swift surprise, then back at thepicture. It was evident that he had not reasoned the impression."Perhaps she is asleep," he repeated. He studied it closely. "No,she is not asleep. The shoulders show that she is not asleep. Ihave seen the shoulders of a woman who cried. The mother iscrying. It is a very great sickness.""And now you understand the picture," I cried.He shook his head, and asked, "The little girl - does it die?"It was my turn for silence."Does it die?" he reiterated. "You are a painter-man. Maybe youknow.""No, I do not know," I confessed."It is not life," he delivered himself dogmatically. "In lifelittle girl die or get well. Something happen in life. In picturenothing happen. No, I do not understand pictures."His disappointment was patent. It was his desire to understand allthings that white men understand, and here, in this matter, hefailed. I felt, also, that there was challenge in his attitude.He was bent upon compelling me to show him the wisdom of pictures.Besides, he had remarkable powers of visualization. I had longsince learned this. He visualized everything. He saw life inpictures, felt life in pictures, generalized life in pictures; andyet he did not understand pictures when seen through other men'seyes and expressed by those men with color and line upon canvas."Pictures are bits of life," I said. "We paint life as we see it.For instance, Charley, you are coming along the trail. It isnight. You see a cabin. The window is lighted. You look throughthe window for one second, or for two seconds, you see something,and you go on your way. You saw maybe a man writing a letter. Yousaw something without beginning or end. Nothing happened. Yet itwas a bit of life you saw. You remember it afterward. It is likea picture in your memory. The window is the frame of the picture."I could see that he was interested, and I knew that as I spoke hehad looked through the window and seen the man writing the letter."There is a picture you have painted that I understand," he said."It is a true picture. It has much meaning. It is in your cabinat Dawson. It is a faro table. There are men playing. It is alarge game. The limit is off.""How do you know the limit is off?" I broke in excitedly, for herewas where my work could be tried out on an unbiassed judge who knewlife only, and not art, and who was a sheer master of reality.Also, I was very proud of that particular piece of work. I hadnamed it "The Last Turn," and I believed it to be one of the bestthings I had ever done."There are no chips on the table", Sitka Charley explained. "Themen are playing with markers. That means the roof is the limit.One man play yellow markers - maybe one yellow marker worth onethousand dollars, maybe two thousand dollars. One man play redmarkers. Maybe they are worth five hundred dollars, maybe onethousand dollars. It is a very big game. Everybody play veryhigh, up to the roof. How do I know? You make the dealer withblood little bit warm in face." (I was delighted.) "The lookout,you make him lean forward in his chair. Why he lean forward? Whyhis face very much quiet? Why his eyes very much bright? Whydealer warm with blood a little bit in the face? Why all men veryquiet? - the man with yellow markers? the man with white markers?the man with red markers? Why nobody talk? Because very muchmoney. Because last turn.""How do you know it is the last turn?" I asked."The king is coppered, the seven is played open," he answered."Nobody bet on other cards. Other cards all gone. Everybody onemind. Everybody play king to lose, seven to win. Maybe bank losetwenty thousand dollars, maybe bank win. Yes, that picture Iunderstand.""Yet you do not know the end!" I cried triumphantly. "It is thelast turn, but the cards are not yet turned. In the picture theywill never be turned. Nobody will ever know who wins nor wholoses.""And the men will sit there and never talk," he said, wonder andawe growing in his face. "And the lookout will lean forward, andthe blood will be warm in the face of the dealer. It is a strangething. Always will they sit there, always; and the cards willnever be turned.""It is a picture," I said. "It is life. You have seen things likeit yourself."He looked at me and pondered, then said, very slowly: "No, as yousay, there is no end to it. Nobody will ever know the end. Yet isit a true thing. I have seen it. It is life."For a long time he smoked on in silence, weighing the pictorialwisdom of the white man and verifying it by the facts of life. Henodded his head several times, and grunted once or twice. Then heknocked the ashes from his pipe, carefully refilled it, and after athoughtful pause, lighted it again."Then have I, too, seen many pictures of life," he began; "picturesnot painted, but seen with the eyes. I have looked at them likethrough the window at the man writing the letter. I have seen manypieces of life, without beginning, without end, withoutunderstanding."With a sudden change of position he turned his eyes full upon meand regarded me thoughtfully."Look you," he said; "you are a painter-man. How would you paintthis which I saw, a picture without beginning, the ending of whichI do not understand, a piece of life with the northern lights for acandle and Alaska for a frame.""It is a large canvas," I murmured.But he ignored me, for the picture he had in mind was before hiseyes and he was seeing it."There are many names for this picture," he said. "But in thepicture there are many sun-dogs, and it comes into my mind to callit 'The Sun-Dog Trail.' It was a long time ago, seven years ago,the fall of '97, when I saw the woman first time. At LakeLinderman I had one canoe, very good Peterborough canoe. I cameover Chilcoot Pass with two thousand letters for Dawson. I wasletter carrier. Everybody rush to Klondike at that time. Manypeople on trail. Many people chop down trees and make boats. Lastwater, snow in the air, snow on the ground, ice on the lake, on theriver ice in the eddies. Every day more snow, more ice. Maybe oneday, maybe three days, maybe six days, any day maybe freeze-upcome, then no more water, all ice, everybody walk, Dawson sixhundred miles, long time walk. Boat go very quick. Everybody wantto go boat. Everybody say, 'Charley, two hundred dollars you takeme in canoe,' 'Charley, three hundred dollars,' 'Charley, fourhundred dollars.' I say no, all the time I say no. I am lettercarrier."In morning I get to Lake Linderman. I walk all night and am muchtired. I cook breakfast, I eat, then I sleep on the beach threehours. I wake up. It is ten o'clock. Snow is falling. There iswind, much wind that blows fair. Also, there is a woman who sitsin the snow alongside. She is white woman, she is young, verypretty, maybe she is twenty years old, maybe twenty-five years old.She look at me. I look at her. She is very tired. She is nodance-woman. I see that right away. She is good woman, and she isvery tired."'You are Sitka Charley,' she says. I get up quick and rollblankets so snow does not get inside. 'I go to Dawson,' she says.'I go in your canoe - how much?'"I do not want anybody in my canoe. I do not like to say no. So Isay, 'One thousand dollars.' Just for fun I say it, so womancannot come with me, much better than say no. She look at me veryhard, then she says, 'When you start?' I say right away. Then shesays all right, she will give me one thousand dollars."What can I say? I do not want the woman, yet have I given my wordthat for one thousand dollars she can come. I am surprised. Maybeshe make fun, too, so I say, 'Let me see thousand dollars.' Andthat woman, that young woman, all alone on the trail, there in thesnow, she take out one thousand dollars, in greenbacks, and she putthem in my hand. I look at money, I look at her. What can I say?I say, 'No, my canoe very small. There is no room for outfit.'She laugh. She says, 'I am great traveller. This is my outfit.'She kick one small pack in the snow. It is two fur robes, canvasoutside, some woman's clothes inside. I pick it up. Maybe thirty-five pounds. I am surprised. She take it away from me. She says,'Come, let us start.' She carries pack into canoe. What can Isay? I put my blankets into canoe. We start."And that is the way I saw the woman first time. The wind wasfair. I put up small sail. The canoe went very fast, it flew likea bird over the high waves. The woman was much afraid. 'What foryou come Klondike much afraid?' I ask. She laugh at me, a hardlaugh, but she is still much afraid. Also is she very tired. Irun canoe through rapids to Lake Bennett. Water very bad, andwoman cry out because she is afraid. We go down Lake Bennett,snow, ice, wind like a gale, but woman is very tired and go tosleep."That night we make camp at Windy Arm. Woman sit by fire and eatsupper. I look at her. She is pretty. She fix hair. There ismuch hair, and it is brown, also sometimes it is like gold in thefirelight, when she turn her head, so, and flashes come from itlike golden fire. The eyes are large and brown, sometimes warmlike a candle behind a curtain, sometimes very hard and bright likebroken ice when sun shines upon it. When she smile - how can Isay? - when she smile I know white man like to kiss her, just likethat, when she smile. She never do hard work. Her hands are soft,like baby's hand. She is soft all over, like baby. She is notthin, but round like baby; her arm, her leg, her muscles, all softand round like baby. Her waist is small, and when she stand up,when she walk, or move her head or arm, it is - I do not know theword - but it is nice to look at, like - maybe I say she is builton lines like the lines of a good canoe, just like that, and whenshe move she is like the movement of the good canoe sliding throughstill water or leaping through water when it is white and fast andangry. It is very good to see."Why does she come into Klondike, all alone, with plenty of money?I do not know. Next day I ask her. She laugh and says: 'SitkaCharley, that is none of your business. I give you one thousanddollars take me to Dawson. That only is your business.' Next dayafter that I ask her what is her name. She laugh, then she says,'Mary Jones, that is my name.' I do not know her name, but I knowall the time that Mary Jones is not her name."It is very cold in canoe, and because of cold sometimes she notfeel good. Sometimes she feel good and she sing. Her voice islike a silver bell, and I feel good all over like when I go intochurch at Holy Cross Mission, and when she sing I feel strong andpaddle like hell. Then she laugh and says, 'You think we get toDawson before freeze-up, Charley?' Sometimes she sit in canoe andis thinking far away, her eyes like that, all empty. She does notsee Sitka Charley, nor the ice, nor the snow. She is far away.Very often she is like that, thinking far away. Sometimes, whenshe is thinking far away, her face is not good to see. It lookslike a face that is angry, like the face of one man when he want tokill another man."Last day to Dawson very bad. Shore-ice in all the eddies, mush-ice in the stream. I cannot paddle. The canoe freeze to ice. Icannot get to shore. There is much danger. All the time we godown Yukon in the ice. That night there is much noise of ice.Then ice stop, canoe stop, everything stop. 'Let us go to shore,'the woman says. I say no, better wait. By and by, everythingstart down-stream again. There is much snow. I cannot see. Ateleven o'clock at night, everything stop. At one o'clockeverything start again. At three o'clock everything stop. Canoeis smashed like eggshell, but is on top of ice and cannot sink. Ihear dogs howling. We wait. We sleep. By and by morning come.There is no more snow. It is the freeze-up, and there is Dawson.Canoe smash and stop right at Dawson. Sitka Charley has come inwith two thousand letters on very last water."The woman rent a cabin on the hill, and for one week I see her nomore. Then, one day, she come to me. 'Charley,' she says, 'how doyou like to work for me? You drive dogs, make camp, travel withme.' I say that I make too much money carrying letters. She says,'Charley, I will pay you more money.' I tell her that pick-and-shovel man get fifteen dollars a day in the mines. She says, 'Thatis four hundred and fifty dollars a month.' And I say, 'SitkaCharley is no pick-and-shovel man.' Then she says, 'I understand,Charley. I will give you seven hundred and fifty dollars eachmonth.' It is a good price, and I go to work for her. I buy forher dogs and sled. We travel up Klondike, up Bonanza and Eldorado,over to Indian River, to Sulphur Creek, to Dominion, back acrossdivide to Gold Bottom and to Too Much Gold, and back to Dawson.All the time she look for something, I do not know what. I ampuzzled. 'What thing you look for?' I ask. She laugh. 'You lookfor gold?' I ask. She laugh. Then she says, 'That is none of yourbusiness, Charley.' And after that I never ask any more."She has a small revolver which she carries in her belt.Sometimes, on trail, she makes practice with revolver. I laugh.'What for you laugh, Charley?' she ask. 'What for you play withthat?' I say. 'It is no good. It is too small. It is for achild, a little plaything.' When we get back to Dawson she ask meto buy good revolver for her. I buy a Colt's 44. It is veryheavy, but she carry it in her belt all the time."At Dawson comes the man. Which way he come I do not know. Onlydo I know he is CHECHA-QUO - what you call tenderfoot. His handsare soft, just like hers. He never do hard work. He is soft allover. At first I think maybe he is her husband. But he is tooyoung. Also, they make two beds at night. He is maybe twentyyears old. His eyes blue, his hair yellow, he has a littlemustache which is yellow. His name is John Jones. Maybe he is herbrother. I do not know. I ask questions no more. Only I thinkhis name not John Jones. Other people call him Mr. Girvan. I donot think that is his name. I do not think her name is MissGirvan, which other people call her. I think nobody know theirnames."One night I am asleep at Dawson. He wake me up. He says, 'Getthe dogs ready; we start.' No more do I ask questions, so I getthe dogs ready and we start. We go down the Yukon. It is night-time, it is November, and it is very cold - sixty-five below. Sheis soft. He is soft. The cold bites. They get tired. They cryunder their breaths to themselves. By and by I say better we stopand make camp. But they say that they will go on. Three times Isay better to make camp and rest, but each time they say they willgo on. After that I say nothing. All the time, day after day, isit that way. They are very soft. They get stiff and sore. Theydo not understand moccasins, and their feet hurt very much. Theylimp, they stagger like drunken people, they cry under theirbreaths; and all the time they say, 'On! on! We will go on!'"They are like crazy people. All the time do they go on, and on.Why do they go on? I do not know. Only do they go on. What arethey after? I do not know. They are not after gold. There is nostampede. Besides, they spend plenty of money. But I askquestions no more. I, too, go on and on, because I am strong onthe trail and because I am greatly paid."We make Circle City. That for which they look is not there. Ithink now that we will rest, and rest the dogs. But we do notrest, not for one day do we rest. 'Come,' says the woman to theman, 'let us go on.' And we go on. We leave the Yukon. We crossthe divide to the west and swing down into the Tanana Country.There are new diggings there. But that for which they look is notthere, and we take the back trail to Circle City."It is a hard journey. December is most gone. The days are short.It is very cold. One morning it is seventy below zero. 'Betterthat we don't travel to-day,' I say, 'else will the frost beunwarmed in the breathing and bite all the edges of our lungs.After that we will have bad cough, and maybe next spring will comepneumonia.' But they are CHECHA-QUO. They do not understand thetrail. They are like dead people they are so tired, but they say,'Let us go on.' We go on. The frost bites their lungs, and theyget the dry cough. They cough till the tears run down theircheeks. When bacon is frying they must run away from the fire andcough half an hour in the snow. They freeze their cheeks a littlebit, so that the skin turns black and is very sore. Also, the manfreezes his thumb till the end is like to come off, and he mustwear a large thumb on his mitten to keep it warm. And sometimes,when the frost bites hard and the thumb is very cold, he must takeoff the mitten and put the hand between his legs next to the skin,so that the thumb may get warm again."We limp into Circle City, and even I, Sitka Charley, am tired. Itis Christmas Eve. I dance, drink, make a good time, for to-morrowis Christmas Day and we will rest. But no. It is five o'clock inthe morning - Christmas morning. I am two hours asleep. The manstand by my bed. 'Come, Charley,' he says, 'harness the dogs. Westart.'"Have I not said that I ask questions no more? They pay me sevenhundred and fifty dollars each month. They are my masters. I amtheir man. If they say, 'Charley, come, let us start for hell,' Iwill harness the dogs, and snap the whip, and start for hell. So Iharness the dogs, and we start down the Yukon. Where do we go?They do not say. Only do they say, 'On! on! We will go on!'"They are very weary. They have travelled many hundreds of miles,and they do not understand the way of the trail. Besides, theircough is very bad - the dry cough that makes strong men swear andweak men cry. But they go on. Every day they go on. Never dothey rest the dogs. Always do they buy new dogs. At every camp,at every post, at every Indian village, do they cut out the tireddogs and put in fresh dogs. They have much money, money withoutend, and like water they spend it. They are crazy? Sometimes Ithink so, for there is a devil in them that drives them on and on,always on. What is it that they try to find? It is not gold.Never do they dig in the ground. I think a long time. Then Ithink it is a man they try to find. But what man? Never do we seethe man. Yet are they like wolves on the trail of the kill. Butthey are funny wolves, soft wolves, baby wolves who do notunderstand the way of the trail. They cry aloud in their sleep atnight. In their sleep they moan and groan with the pain of theirweariness. And in the day, as they stagger along the trail, theycry under their breaths. They are funny wolves."We pass Fort Yukon. We pass Fort Hamilton. We pass Minook.January has come and nearly gone. The days are very short. Atnine o'clock comes daylight. At three o'clock comes night. And itis cold. And even I, Sitka Charley, am tired. Will we go onforever this way without end? I do not know. But always do I lookalong the trail for that which they try to find. There are fewpeople on the trail. Sometimes we travel one hundred miles andnever see a sign of life. It is very quiet. There is no sound.Sometimes it snows, and we are like wandering ghosts. Sometimes itis clear, and at midday the sun looks at us for a moment over thehills to the south. The northern lights flame in the sky, and thesun-dogs dance, and the air is filled with frost-dust."I am Sitka Charley, a strong man. I was born on the trail, andall my days have I lived on the trail. And yet have these two babywolves made me very tired. I am lean, like a starved cat, and I amglad of my bed at night, and in the morning am I greatly weary.Yet ever are we hitting the trail in the dark before daylight, andstill on the trail does the dark after nightfall find us. Thesetwo baby wolves! If I am lean like a starved cat, they are leanlike cats that have never eaten and have died. Their eyes are sunkdeep in their heads, bright sometimes as with fever, dim and cloudysometimes like the eyes of the dead. Their cheeks are hollow likecaves in a cliff. Also are their cheeks black and raw from manyfreezings. Sometimes it is the woman in the morning who says, 'Icannot get up. I cannot move. Let me die.' And it is the man whostands beside her and says, 'Come, let us go on.' And they go on.And sometimes it is the man who cannot get up, and the woman says,'Come, let us go on.' But the one thing they do, and always do, isto go on. Always do they go on."Sometimes, at the trading posts, the man and woman get letters. Ido not know what is in the letters. But it is the scent that theyfollow, these letters themselves are the scent. One time an Indiangives them a letter. I talk with him privately. He says it is aman with one eye who gives him the letter, a man who travels fastdown the Yukon. That is all. But I know that the baby wolves areafter the man with the one eye."It is February, and we have travelled fifteen hundred miles. Weare getting near Bering Sea, and there are storms and blizzards.The going is hard. We come to Anvig. I do not know, but I thinksure they get a letter at Anvig, for they are much excited, andthey say, 'Come, hurry, let us go on.' But I say we must buy grub,and they say we must travel light and fast. Also, they say that wecan get grub at Charley McKeon's cabin. Then do I know that theytake the big cut-off, for it is there that Charley McKeon liveswhere the Black Rock stands by the trail."Before we start, I talk maybe two minutes with the priest atAnvig. Yes, there is a man with one eye who has gone by and whotravels fast. And I know that for which they look is the man withthe one eye. We leave Anvig with little grub, and travel light andfast. There are three fresh dogs bought in Anvig, and we travelvery fast. The man and woman are like mad. We start earlier inthe morning, we travel later at night. I look sometimes to seethem die, these two baby wolves, but they will not die. They go onand on. When the dry cough take hold of them hard, they hold theirhands against their stomach and double up in the snow, and cough,and cough, and cough. They cannot walk, they cannot talk. Maybefor ten minutes they cough, maybe for half an hour, and then theystraighten up, the tears from the coughing frozen on their faces,and the words they say are, 'Come, let us go on.'"Even I, Sitka Charley, am greatly weary, and I think seven hundredand fifty dollars is a cheap price for the labor I do. We take thebig cut-off, and the trail is fresh. The baby wolves have theirnoses down to the trail, and they say, 'Hurry!' All the time dothey say, 'Hurry! Faster! Faster!' It is hard on the dogs. Wehave not much food and we cannot give them enough to eat, and theygrow weak. Also, they must work hard. The woman has true sorrowfor them, and often, because of them, the tears are in her eyes.But the devil in her that drives her on will not let her stop andrest the dogs."And then we come upon the man with the one eye. He is in the snowby the trail, and his leg is broken. Because of the leg he hasmade a poor camp, and has been lying on his blankets for three daysand keeping a fire going. When we find him he is swearing. Heswears like hell. Never have I heard a man swear like that man. Iam glad. Now that they have found that for which they look, wewill have rest. But the woman says, 'Let us start. Hurry!'"I am surprised. But the man with the one eye says, 'Never mindme. Give me your grub. You will get more grub at McKeon's cabinto-morrow. Send McKeon back for me. But do you go on.' Here isanother wolf, an old wolf, and he, too, thinks but the one thought,to go on. So we give him our grub, which is not much, and we chopwood for his fire, and we take his strongest dogs and go on. Weleft the man with one eye there in the snow, and he died there inthe snow, for McKeon never went back for him. And who that manwas, and why he came to be there, I do not know. But I think hewas greatly paid by the man and the woman, like me, to do theirwork for them."That day and that night we had nothing to eat, and all next day wetravelled fast, and we were weak with hunger. Then we came to theBlack Rock, which rose five hundred feet above the trail. It wasat the end of the day. Darkness was coming, and we could not findthe cabin of McKeon. We slept hungry, and in the morning lookedfor the cabin. It was not there, which was a strange thing, foreverybody knew that McKeon lived in a cabin at Black Rock. We werenear to the coast, where the wind blows hard and there is muchsnow. Everywhere there were small hills of snow where the wind hadpiled it up. I have a thought, and I dig in one and another of thehills of snow. Soon I find the walls of the cabin, and I dig downto the door. I go inside. McKeon is dead. Maybe two or threeweeks he is dead. A sickness had come upon him so that he couldnot leave the cabin. The wind and the snow had covered the cabin.He had eaten his grub and died. I looked for his cache, but therewas no grub in it."'Let us go on,' said the woman. Her eyes were hungry, and herhand was upon her heart, as with the hurt of something inside. Shebent back and forth like a tree in the wind as she stood there.'Yes, let us go on,' said the man. His voice was hollow, like theKLONK of an old raven, and he was hunger-mad. His eyes were likelive coals of fire, and as his body rocked to and fro, so rockedhis soul inside. And I, too, said, 'Let us go on.' For that onethought, laid upon me like a lash for every mile of fifteen hundredmiles, had burned itself into my soul, and I think that I, too, wasmad. Besides, we could only go on, for there was no grub. And wewent on, giving no thought to the man with the one eye in the snow."There is little travel on the big cut-off. Sometimes two or threemonths and nobody goes by. The snow had covered the trail, andthere was no sign that men had ever come or gone that way. All daythe wind blew and the snow fell, and all day we travelled, whileour stomachs gnawed their desire and our bodies grew weaker withevery step they took. Then the woman began to fall. Then the man.I did not fall, but my feet were heavy and I caught my toes andstumbled many times."That night is the end of February. I kill three ptarmigan withthe woman's revolver, and we are made somewhat strong again. Butthe dogs have nothing to eat. They try to eat their harness, whichis of leather and walrus-hide, and I must fight them off with aclub and hang all the harness in a tree. And all night they howland fight around that tree. But we do not mind. We sleep likedead people, and in the morning get up like dead people out oftheir graves and go on along the trail."That morning is the 1st of March, and on that morning I see thefirst sign of that after which the baby wolves are in search. Itis clear weather, and cold. The sun stay longer in the sky, andthere are sun-dogs flashing on either side, and the air is brightwith frost-dust. The snow falls no more upon the trail, and I seethe fresh sign of dogs and sled. There is one man with thatoutfit, and I see in the snow that he is not strong. He, too, hasnot enough to eat. The young wolves see the fresh sign, too, andthey are much excited. 'Hurry!' they say. All the time they say,'Hurry! Faster, Charley, faster!'"We make hurry very slow. All the time the man and the woman falldown. When they try to ride on sled the dogs are too weak, and thedogs fall down. Besides, it is so cold that if they ride on thesled they will freeze. It is very easy for a hungry man to freeze.When the woman fall down, the man help her up. Sometimes the womanhelp the man up. By and by both fall down and cannot get up, and Imust help them up all the time, else they will not get up and willdie there in the snow. This is very hard work, for I am greatlyweary, and as well I must drive the dogs, and the man and woman arevery heavy with no strength in their bodies. So, by and by, I,too, fall down in the snow, and there is no one to help me up. Imust get up by myself. And always do I get up by myself, and helpthem up, and make the dogs go on."That night I get one ptarmigan, and we are very hungry. And thatnight the man says to me, 'What time start to-morrow, Charley?' Itis like the voice of a ghost. I say, 'All the time you make startat five o'clock.' 'To-morrow,' he says, 'we will start at threeo'clock.' I laugh in great bitterness, and I say, 'You are deadman.' And he says, 'To-morrow we will start at three o'clock.'"And we start at three o'clock, for I am their man, and that whichthey say is to be done, I do. It is clear and cold, and there isno wind. When daylight comes we can see a long way off. And it isvery quiet. We can hear no sound but the beat of our hearts, andin the silence that is a very loud sound. We are like sleep-walkers, and we walk in dreams until we fall down; and then we knowwe must get up, and we see the trail once more and bear the beatingof our hearts. Sometimes, when I am walking in dreams this way, Ihave strange thoughts. Why does Sitka Charley live? I ask myself.Why does Sitka Charley work hard, and go hungry, and have all thispain? For seven hundred and fifty dollars a month, I make theanswer, and I know it is a foolish answer. Also is it a trueanswer. And after that never again do I care for money. For thatday a large wisdom came to me. There was a great light, and I sawclear, and I knew that it was not for money that a man must live,but for a happiness that no man can give, or buy, or sell, and thatis beyond all value of all money in the world."In the morning we come upon the last-night camp of the man who isbefore us. It is a poor camp, the kind a man makes who is hungryand without strength. On the snow there are pieces of blanket andof canvas, and I know what has happened. His dogs have eaten theirharness, and he has made new harness out of his blankets. The manand woman stare hard at what is to be seen, and as I look at themmy back feels the chill as of a cold wind against the skin. Theireyes are toil-mad and hunger-mad, and burn like fire deep in theirheads. Their faces are like the faces of people who have died ofhunger, and their cheeks are black with the dead flesh of manyfreezings. 'Let us go on,' says the man. But the woman coughs andfalls in the snow. It is the dry cough where the frost has bittenthe lungs. For a long time she coughs, then like a woman crawlingout of her grave she crawls to her feet. The tears are ice uponher cheeks, and her breath makes a noise as it comes and goes, andshe says, 'Let us go on.'"We go on. And we walk in dreams through the silence. And everytime we walk is a dream and we are without pain; and every time wefall down is an awakening, and we see the snow and the mountainsand the fresh trail of the man who is before us, and we know allour pain again. We come to where we can see a long way over thesnow, and that for which they look is before them. A mile awaythere are black spots upon the snow. The black spots move. Myeyes are dim, and I must stiffen my soul to see. And I see one manwith dogs and a sled. The baby wolves see, too. They can nolonger talk, but they whisper, 'On, on. Let us hurry!'"And they fall down, but they go on. The man who is before us, hisblanket harness breaks often, and he must stop and mend it. Ourharness is good, for I have hung it in trees each night. At eleveno'clock the man is half a mile away. At one o'clock he is aquarter of a mile away. He is very weak. We see him fall downmany times in the snow. One of his dogs can no longer travel, andhe cuts it out of the harness. But he does not kill it. I kill itwith the axe as I go by, as I kill one of my dogs which loses itslegs and can travel no more."Now we are three hundred yards away. We go very slow. Maybe intwo, three hours we go one mile. We do not walk. All the time wefall down. We stand up and stagger two steps, maybe three steps,then we fall down again. And all the time I must help up the manand woman. Sometimes they rise to their knees and fall forward,maybe four or five times before they can get to their feet againand stagger two or three steps and fall. But always do they fallforward. Standing or kneeling, always do they fall forward,gaining on the trail each time by the length of their bodies."Sometimes they crawl on hands and knees like animals that live inthe forest. We go like snails, like snails that are dying we go soslow. And yet we go faster than the man who is before us. For he,too, falls all the time, and there is no Sitka Charley to lift himup. Now he is two hundred yards away. After a long time he is onehundred yards away."It is a funny sight. I want to laugh out loud, Ha! ha! just likethat, it is so funny. It is a race of dead men and dead dogs. Itis like in a dream when you have a nightmare and run away very fastfor your life and go very slow. The man who is with me is mad.The woman is mad. I am mad. All the world is mad, and I want tolaugh, it is so funny."The stranger-man who is before us leaves his dogs behind and goeson alone across the snow. After a long time we come to the dogs.They lie helpless in the snow, their harness of blanket and canvason them, the sled behind them, and as we pass them they whine to usand cry like babies that are hungry."Then we, too, leave our dogs and go on alone across the snow. Theman and the woman are nearly gone, and they moan and groan and sob,but they go on. I, too, go on. I have but one thought. It is tocome up to the stranger-man. Then it is that I shall rest, and notuntil then shall I rest, and it seems that I must lie down andsleep for a thousand years, I am so tired."The stranger-man is fifty yards away, all alone in the white snow.He falls and crawls, staggers, and falls and crawls again. He islike an animal that is sore wounded and trying to run from thehunter. By and by he crawls on hands and knees. He no longerstands up. And the man and woman no longer stand up. They, too,crawl after him on hands and knees. But I stand up. Sometimes Ifall, but always do I stand up again."It is a strange thing to see. All about is the snow and thesilence, and through it crawl the man and the woman, and thestranger-man who goes before. On either side the sun are sun-dogs,so that there are three suns in the sky. The frost-dust is likethe dust of diamonds, and all the air is filled with it. Now thewoman coughs, and lies still in the snow until the fit has passed,when she crawls on again. Now the man looks ahead, and he isblear-eyed as with old age and must rub his eyes so that he can seethe stranger-man. And now the stranger-man looks back over hisshoulder. And Sitka Charley, standing upright, maybe falls downand stands upright again."After a long time the stranger-man crawls no more. He standsslowly upon his feet and rocks back and forth. Also does he takeoff one mitten and wait with revolver in his hand, rocking back andforth as he waits. His face is skin and bones and frozen black.It is a hungry face. The eyes are deep-sunk in his head, and thelips are snarling. The man and woman, too, get upon their feet andthey go toward him very slowly. And all about is the snow and thesilence. And in the sky are three suns, and all the air isflashing with the dust of diamonds."And thus it was that I, Sitka Charley, saw the baby wolves maketheir kill. No word is spoken. Only does the stranger-man snarlwith his hungry face. Also does he rock to and fro, his shouldersdrooping, his knees bent, and his legs wide apart so that he doesnot fall down. The man and the woman stop maybe fifty feet away.Their legs, too, are wide apart so that they do not fall down, andtheir bodies rock to and fro. The stranger-man is very weak. Hisarm shakes, so that when he shoots at the man his bullet strikes inthe snow. The man cannot take off his mitten. The stranger-manshoots at him again, and this time the bullet goes by in the air.Then the man takes the mitten in his teeth and pulls it off. Buthis hand is frozen and he cannot hold the revolver, and it fails inthe snow. I look at the woman. Her mitten is off, and the bigColt's revolver is in her hand. Three times she shoot, quick, justlike that. The hungry face of the stranger-man is still snarlingas he falls forward into the snow."They do not look at the dead man. 'Let us go on,' they say. Andwe go on. But now that they have found that for which they look,they are like dead. The last strength has gone out of them. Theycan stand no more upon their feet. They will not crawl, but desireonly to close their eyes and sleep. I see not far away a place forcamp. I kick them. I have my dog-whip, and I give them the lashof it. They cry aloud, but they must crawl. And they do crawl tothe place for camp. I build fire so that they will not freeze.Then I go back for sled. Also, I kill the dogs of the stranger-manso that we may have food and not die. I put the man and woman inblankets and they sleep. Sometimes I wake them and give themlittle bit of food. They are not awake, but they take the food.The woman sleep one day and a half. Then she wake up and go tosleep again. The man sleep two days and wake up and go to sleepagain. After that we go down to the coast at St. Michaels. Andwhen the ice goes out of Bering Sea, the man and woman go away on asteamship. But first they pay me my seven hundred and fiftydollars a month. Also, they make me a present of one thousanddollars. And that was the year that Sitka Charley gave much moneyto the Mission at Holy Cross.""But why did they kill the man?" I asked.Sitka Charley delayed reply until he had lighted his pipe. Heglanced at the POLICE GAZETTE illustration and nodded his head atit familiarly. Then he said, speaking slowly and ponderingly:"I have thought much. I do not know. It is something thathappened. It is a picture I remember. It is like looking in atthe window and seeing the man writing a letter. They came into mylife and they went out of my life, and the picture is as I havesaid, without beginning, the end without understanding.""You have painted many pictures in the telling," I said."Ay," he nodded his head. "But they were without beginning andwithout end.""The last picture of all had an end," I said."Ay," he answered. "But what end?""It was a piece of life," I said."Ay," he answered. "It was a piece of life."
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