A thousand deaths by Jack London

had dozed the instant he sat down, though he had not slept thirty seconds.

He was afraid his next doze might be longer, so he finished fixing his footgear

standing up. Even then he was overpowered for a fleeting moment.

He experienced the flash of unconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in

mid-air, as his relaxed body was sinking to the ground and as he caught

himself together, he stiffened his muscles with a spasmodic wrench, and

escaped the fall. The sudden jerk back to consciousness left him sick and

trembling. He beat his head with the heel of his hand, knocking

wakefulness into the numb brain.

Jack Burns’s pack-train was starting back light for Crater Lake, and

Churchill was invited to a mule. Burns wanted to put the grip-sack on

another animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on his saddlepommel.

But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping off the pommel,

one side or the other, each time wakening him with a sickening start.

Then, in the early darkness, Churchill’s mule brushed him against a

projecting branch that laid his cheek open. To cap it, the mule blundered

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off the trail and fell, throwing rider and grip-sack out upon the rocks. After

that, Churchill walked, or stumbled, rather, over the apology for a trail,

leading the mule. Stray and awful odors, drifting from each side the trail,

told of the horses that had died in the rush for gold. But he did not mind.

He was too sleepy. By the time Long Lake was reached, however, he had

recovered from his sleepiness; and at Deep Lake he resigned the gripsack

to Burns. But thereafter, by the light of the dim stars, he kept his eyes on

Burns. There were not going to be any accidents with that bag.

At Crater Lake the pack-train went into camp, and Churchill, slinging the

grip on his back, started the steep climb for the summit. For the first time,

on that precipitous wall, he realized how tired he was. He crept and

crawled like a crab, burdened by the weight of his limbs. A distinct and

painful effort of will was required each time he lifted a foot. An

hallucination came to him that he was shod with lead, like a deep-sea

diver, and it was all he could do to resist the desire to reach down and feel

the lead. As for Bondell’s gripsack, it was inconceivable that forty pounds

could weigh so much. It pressed him down like a mountain, and he looked

back with unbelief to the year before, when he had climbed that same pass

with a hundred and fifty pounds on his back. If those loads had weighed a

hundred and fifty pounds, then Bondell’s grip weighed five hundred.

The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a small glacier.

Here was a well-defined trail. But above the glacier, which was also above

timber-line, was naught but a chaos of naked rock and enormous boulders.

There was no way of seeing the trail in the darkness, and he blundered on,

paying thrice the ordinary exertion for all that he accomplished. He won

the summit in the thick of howling wind and driving snow, providentially

stumbling upon a small, deserted tent, into which he crawled. There he

found and bolted some ancient fried potatoes and half a dozen raw eggs.

When the snow ceased and the wind eased down, he began the almost

impossible descent. There was no trail, and he stumbled and blundered,

often finding himself, at the last moment, on the edge of rocky walls and

steep slopes the depth of which he had no way of judging. Part way down,

the stars clouded over again, and in the consequent obscurity he slipped

and rolled and slid for a hundred feet, landing bruised and bleeding on the

bottom of a large shallow hole. From all about him arose the stench of

dead horses. The hole was handy to the trail, and the packers had made a

practice of tumbling into it their broken and dying animals. The stench

overpowered him, making him deathly sick, and as in a nightmare he

scrambled out. Halfway up, he recollected Bondell’s gripsack. It had fallen

into the hole with him; the pack-strap had evidently broken, and he had

forgotten it. Back he went into the pestilential charnel-pit, where he

crawled around on hands and knees and groped for half an hour.

Altogether he encountered and counted seventeen dead horses (and one

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horse still alive that he shot with his revolver) before he found Bondell’s

grip. Looking back upon a life that had not been without valor and

achievement, he unhesitatingly declared to himself that this return after the

grip was the most heroic act he had ever performed. So heroic was it that

he was twice on the verge of fainting before he crawled out of the hole.

By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch of Chilcoot

was past, and the way became easier. Not that it was an easy way,

however, in the best of places; but it became a really possible trail, along

which he could have made good time if he had not been worn out, if he

had had light with which to pick his steps, and if it had not been for

Bondell’s gripsack. To him, in his exhausted condition, it was the last

straw. Having barely strength to carry himself along, the additional weight

of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly every time he tripped or

stumbled. And when he escaped tripping, branches reached out in the

darkness, hooked the grip between his shoulders, and held him back.

His mind was made up that if he missed the Athenian it would be the fault

of the gripsack. In fact, only two things remained in his consciousness–

Blondell’s grip and the steamer. He knew only those two things, and they

became identified, in a way, with some stern mission upon which he had

journeyed and toiled for centuries. He walked and struggled on as in a

dream. As part of the dream was his arrival at Sheep Camp. He stumbled

into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of the straps, and started to deposit the

grip at his feet. But it slipped from his fingers and struck the floor with a

heavy thud that was not unnoticed by two men who were just leaving.

Churchill drank a glass of whiskey, told the barkeeper to call him in ten

minutes, and sat down, his feet on the grip, his head on his knees.

So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called it required

another ten minutes and a second glass of whiskey to unbend his joints

and limber up the muscles.

“Hey! not that way!” the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him and

started him through the darkness toward Canyon City. Some little husk of

inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and, still as

in a dream, he took the cañon trail. He did not know what warned him, but

after what seemed several centuries of travelling, he sensed danger and

drew his revolver. Still in the dream, he saw two men step out and heard

them halt him. His revolver went off four times, and he saw the flashes

and heard the explosions of their revolvers. Also, he was aware that he had

been hit in the thigh. He saw one man go down, and, as the other came for

him, he smashed him a straight blow with the heavy revolver full in the

face. Then he turned and ran. He came from the dream shortly afterward,

to find himself plunging down the trail at a limping lope. His first thought

was for the gripsack. It was still on his back. He was convinced that what

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had happened was a dream till he felt for his revolver and found it gone.

Next he became aware of a sharp stinging of his thigh, and after

investigating, he found his hand warm with blood. It was a superficial

wound, but it was incontestable. He became wider awake, and kept up the

lumbering run to Canyon City.

He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bed

and harnessed up for twenty dollars. Churchill crawled in on the wagonbed

and slept, the gripsack still on his back. It was a rough ride, over

water-washed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he roused only when

the wagon hit the highest places. Any altitude of his body above the

wagon-bed of less than a foot did not faze him. The last mile was smooth

going, and he slept soundly.

He came to in the gray dawn, the driver shaking him savagely and howling

into his ear that the Athenian was gone. Churchill looked blankly at the