The Son of the Wolf - Jack London (great novels of all time txt) 📗

closed the door. “No words!” he whispered to Wharton, as he struck a casual posture on a stool. “Remember, for her sake,” he added.

The room echoed to a rough knock at the door; the latch raised and Edwin Bentham stepped in.

“Seen anything of my wife?” he asked as soon as salutations had been exchanged.

Two heads nodded negatively.

“I saw her tracks down from the cabin,” he continued tentatively, “and they broke off, just opposite here, on the main trail.”

His listeners looked bored.

“And I⁠—I thought⁠—”

“She was here!” thundered Wharton.

The priest silenced him with a look. “Did you see her tracks leading up to this cabin, my son?” Wily Father Roubeau⁠—he had taken good care to obliterate them as he came up the same path an hour before.

“I didn’t stop to look, I⁠—” His eyes rested suspiciously on the door to the other room, then interrogated the priest. The latter shook his head; but the doubt seemed to linger.

Father Roubeau breathed a swift, silent prayer, and rose to his feet. “If you doubt me, why⁠—” He made as though to open the door.

A priest could not lie. Edwin Bentham had heard this often, and believed it. “Of course not, Father,” he interposed hurriedly. “I was only wondering where my wife had gone, and thought maybe⁠—I guess she’s up at Mrs. Stanton’s on French Gulch. Nice weather, isn’t it? Heard the news? Flour’s gone down to forty dollars a hundred, and they say the che-cha-quas are flocking down the river in droves. But I must be going; so goodbye.”

The door slammed, and from the window they watched him take his guest up French Gulch.

A few weeks later, just after the June high-water, two men shot a canoe into midstream and made fast to a derelict pine. This tightened the painter and jerked the frail craft along as would a towboat. Father Roubeau had been directed to leave the upper country and return to his swarthy children at Minook. The white men had come among them, and they were devoting too little time to fishing, and too much to a certain deity whose transient habitat was in countless black bottles. Malemute Kid also had business in the Lower Country, so they journeyed together.

But one, in all the Northland, knew the man Paul Roubeau, and that man was Malemute Kid. Before him alone did the priest cast off the sacerdotal garb and stand naked. And why not? These two men knew each other. Had they not shared the last morsel of fish, the last pinch of tobacco, the last and inmost thought, on the barren stretches of Bering Sea, in the heartbreaking mazes of the Great Delta, on the terrible winter journey from Point Barrow to the Porcupine?

Father Roubeau puffed heavily at his trail-worn pipe, and gazed on the reddisked sun, poised somberly on the edge of the northern horizon. Malemute Kid wound up his watch. It was midnight.

“Cheer up, old man!” The Kid was evidently gathering up a broken thread. “God surely will forgive such a lie. Let me give you the word of a man who strikes a true note:

“ ‘If she have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed,
And the brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.
If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,
Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.’ ”

Father Roubeau removed his pipe and reflected. “The man speaks true, but my soul is not vexed with that. The lie and the penance stand with God; but⁠—but⁠—”

“What then? Your hands are clean.”

“Not so. Kid, I have thought much, and yet the thing remains. I knew, and made her go back.”

The clear note of a robin rang out from the wooden bank, a partridge drummed the call in the distance, a moose lunged noisily in the eddy; but the twain smoked on in silence.

The Wisdom of the Trail

Sitka Charley had achieved the impossible. Other Indians might have known as much of the wisdom of the trail as he did; but he alone knew the white man’s wisdom, the honour of the trail, and the law. But these things had not come to him in a day. The aboriginal mind is slow to generalise, and many facts, repeated often, are required to compass an understanding. Sitka Charley, from boyhood, had been thrown continually with white men, and as a man he had elected to cast his fortunes with them, expatriating himself, once and for all, from his own people. Even then, respecting, almost venerating their power, and pondering over it, he had yet to divine its secret essence⁠—the honour and the law. And it was only by the cumulative evidence of years that he had finally come to understand. Being an alien, when he did know he knew it better than the white man himself; being an Indian, he had achieved the impossible.

And of these things had been bred a certain contempt for his own people⁠—a contempt which he had made it a custom to conceal, but which now burst forth in a polyglot whirlwind of curses upon the heads of Kah-Chucte and Gowhee. They cringed before him like a brace of snarling wolf dogs, too cowardly to spring, too wolfish to cover their fangs. They were not handsome creatures. Neither was Sitka Charley. There was no flesh to their faces; their cheekbones were massed with hideous scabs which had cracked and frozen alternately under the intense frost; while their eyes burned luridly with the light which is born of desperation and hunger. Men so situated, beyond the pale of the honour and the law, are not to be trusted. Sitka Charley knew this; and this was why he had forced them to abandon their rifles with the rest of the camp outfit ten days before. His rifle and Captain Eppingwell’s were the only ones that remained.

“Come, get a fire started,” he commanded, drawing out the precious matchbox with its