falls in the snow. It is the dry cough where the frost has bitten
the lungs. For a long time she coughs, then like a woman crawling
out of her grave she crawls to her feet. The tears are ice upon
her cheeks, and her breath makes a noise as it comes and goes, and
she says, ‘Let us go on.’
“We go on. And we walk in dreams through the silence. And every
time we walk is a dream and we are without pain; and every time we
fall down is an awakening, and we see the snow and the mountains
and the fresh trail of the man who is before us, and we know all
our pain again. We come to where we can see a long way over the
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snow, and that for which they look is before them. A mile away
there are black spots upon the snow. The black spots move. My
eyes are dim, and I must stiffen my soul to see. And I see one man
with dogs and a sled. The baby wolves see, too. They can no
longer talk, but they whisper, ‘On, on. Let us hurry!’
“And they fall down, but they go on. The man who is before us, his
blanket harness breaks often, and he must stop and mend it. Our
harness is good, for I have hung it in trees each night. At eleven
o’clock the man is half a mile away. At one o’clock he is a
quarter of a mile away. He is very weak. We see him fall down
many times in the snow. One of his dogs can no longer travel, and
he cuts it out of the harness. But he does not kill it. I kill it
with the axe as I go by, as I kill one of my dogs which loses its
legs and can travel no more.
“Now we are three hundred yards away. We go very slow. Maybe in
two, three hours we go one mile. We do not walk. All the time we
fall 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 man
and woman. Sometimes they rise to their knees and fall forward,
maybe four or five times before they can get to their feet again
and stagger two or three steps and fall. But always do they fall
forward. 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 in
the forest. We go like snails, like snails that are dying we go so
slow. 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 him
up. Now he is two hundred yards away. After a long time he is one
hundred yards away.
“It is a funny sight. I want to laugh out loud, Ha! ha! just like
that, it is so funny. It is a race of dead men and dead dogs. It
is like in a dream when you have a nightmare and run away very fast
for 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 to
laugh, it is so funny.
“The stranger-man who is before us leaves his dogs behind and goes
on alone across the snow. After a long time we come to the dogs.
They lie helpless in the snow, their harness of blanket and canvas
on them, the sled behind them, and as we pass them they whine to us
and cry like babies that are hungry.
“Then we, too, leave our dogs and go on alone across the snow. The
man 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 to
come up to the stranger-man. Then it is that I shall rest, and not
until then shall I rest, and it seems that I must lie down and
sleep 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 is
like an animal that is sore wounded and trying to run from the
hunter. By and by he crawls on hands and knees. He no longer
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stands up. And the man and woman no longer stand up. They, too,
crawl after him on hands and knees. But I stand up. Sometimes I
fall, but always do I stand up again.
“It is a strange thing to see. All about is the snow and the
silence, and through it crawl the man and the woman, and the
stranger-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 like
the dust of diamonds, and all the air is filled with it. Now the
woman coughs, and lies still in the snow until the fit has passed,
when she crawls on again. Now the man looks ahead, and he is
blear-eyed as with old age and must rub his eyes so that he can see
the stranger-man. And now the stranger-man looks back over his
shoulder. And Sitka Charley, standing upright, maybe falls down
and stands upright again.
“After a long time the stranger-man crawls no more. He stands
slowly upon his feet and rocks back and forth. Also does he take
off one mitten and wait with revolver in his hand, rocking back and
forth 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 the
lips are snarling. The man and woman, too, get upon their feet and
they go toward him very slowly. And all about is the snow and the
silence. And in the sky are three suns, and all the air is
flashing with the dust of diamonds.
“And thus it was that I, Sitka Charley, saw the baby wolves make
their kill. No word is spoken. Only does the stranger-man snarl
with his hungry face. Also does he rock to and fro, his shoulders
drooping, his knees bent, and his legs wide apart so that he does
not 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, and
their bodies rock to and fro. The stranger-man is very weak. His
arm shakes, so that when he shoots at the man his bullet strikes in
the snow. The man cannot take off his mitten. The stranger-man
shoots 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. But
his hand is frozen and he cannot hold the revolver, and it fails in
the snow. I look at the woman. Her mitten is off, and the big
Colt’s revolver is in her hand. Three times she shoot, quick, just
like that. The hungry face of the stranger-man is still snarling
as he falls forward into the snow.
“They do not look at the dead man. ‘Let us go on,’ they say. And
we 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. They
can stand no more upon their feet. They will not crawl, but desire
only to close their eyes and sleep. I see not far away a place for
camp. I kick them. I have my dog-whip, and I give them the lash
of it. They cry aloud, but they must crawl. And they do crawl to
the 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-man
so that we may have food and not die. I put the man and woman in
blankets and they sleep. Sometimes I wake them and give them
little 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 to
sleep again. The man sleep two days and wake up and go to sleep
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again. After that we go down to the coast at St. Michaels. And
when the ice goes out of Bering Sea, the man and woman go away on a
steamship. But first they pay me my seven hundred and fifty