Northland Stories by Jack London Page B

chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the Frost King, just stepped in out of the night. Clasped outside his mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt’s revolvers and a hunting-knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dogwhip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.
    An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty “What cheer, my lads?” put them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.
    â€œHow long since that basket-sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?” he asked.
    â€œAn even two days ahead. Are you after them?”
    â€œYes; my team. Run them off under my very nose, the cusses. I’ve gained two days on them already,—pick them up on the next run.”
    â€œReckon they’ll show spunk?” asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid already had the coffee-pot on and was busily frying bacon and moose-meat.
    The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.
    â€œWhen ’d yeh leave Dawson?”
    â€œTwelve o’clock.”
    â€œLast night?”—as a matter of course.
    â€œTo-day.”
    A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours’ run.
    The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare, Malemute Kid attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship. Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action, especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature.
    â€œSo thet’s how me an’ the ol’ woman got spliced,” said Belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. “‘Here we be, dad,’ sez she. ‘An’ may yeh be damned,’ sez he to her, an’ then to me, ‘Jim, yeh—yeh git outen them good duds o’ yourn; I want a right peart slice o’ thet forty acre ploughed ’fore dinner.’ An’ then he turns on her an’ sez, ‘An’ yeh, Sal; yeh sail inter them dishes.’ An’ then he sort o’ sniffled an’ kissed her. An’ I was thet happy,—but he seen me an’ roars out, ‘Yeh, Jim!’ An’ yeh bet I dusted fer the barn.”
    â€œAny kids waiting for you back in the States?” asked the stranger.
    â€œNope; Sal died ‘fore any come. Thet’s why I’m here.” Belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, “How ’bout yerself, stranger,—married man?”
    For reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed it over. Belden pricked up the slush-lamp, surveyed the inside of the case critically, and swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to Louis Savoy. With numerous “By gars!” he finally surrendered it to Prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. And