Back to God's Country and Other Stories - James Oliver Curwood (summer reads .txt) 📗

the butt of his revolver, still obeying that first governing law of his merciless life—caution, Falkner was so near that he could reach out and touch Carr, and in an instant he was at his enemy’s throat. Not a cry fell from Carr’s lips. There was death in the terrible grip of Falkner’s hands, and like one whose neck had been broken Carr sank to the floor. Falkner’s grip tightened, and he did not loosen it until Carr was black in the face and his jaw fell open. Then Falkner bound him hand and foot with the babiche thongs, and dragged him to the bunk.

Through the open door one of the sledge-dogs had thrust his head and shoulders. It was a Barracks team, accustomed to warmth and shelter, and Falkner had no difficulty in getting the leader and his three mates inside. To make friends with them he fed them chunks of raw caribou meat, and when Carr opened his eyes he was busy packing. He laughed joyously when he saw that the man-hunter had regained consciousness, and was staring at him with evident malice.

“Hello, Carr,” he greeted affably. “Feeling better? Tables sort of turned, ain’t they?”

Carr made no answer. His white lips were set like thin bands of steel.

“I’m getting ready to leave you,” Falkner explained, as he rolled up a blanket and shoved it into his rubber pack-pouch. “And you’re going to stay here—until spring. Do you get onto that? You’ve GOT to stay. I’m going to leave you marooned, so to speak. You couldn’t travel a hundred yards out there without snowshoes, and I’m goin’ to take your snowshoes. And I’m goin’ to take your guns, and burn your pack, your coat, mittens, cap, an’ moccasins. Catch on? I’m not goin’ to kill you, and I’m going to leave you enough grub to last until spring, but you won’t dare risk yourself out in the cold and snow. If you do, you’ll freeze off your tootsies, and make your lungs sick. Don’t you feel sort of pleasant—you—you—devil!”

Six hours later Falkner stood outside the cabin. The dogs were in their traces, and the sledge was packed. The storm had blown itself out, and a warmer temperature had followed in the path of the blizzard. He wore his coat now, and gently he felt of the bulging pocket, and laughed joyously as he faced the South.

“It’s goin’ to be a long hike, you little cuss,” he said softly. “It’s goin’ to be a darned long hike. But we’ll make it. Yessir, we’ll make it. And won’t they be s’prised when we fall in on ‘em, six months ahead of time?”

He examined the pocket carefully, making sure that he had buttoned down the flap.

“I wouldn’t want to lose you,” he chuckled. “Next to her, an’ the kid, I wouldn’t want to lose you!”

Then, slowly, a strange smile passed over his face, and he gazed questioningly for a moment at the pocket which he held in his hand.

“You nervy little cuss!” he grinned. “I wonder if you’re a girl mouse, an’ if we’re goin’ to have a fam’ly on the way home! An’—an’—what the dickens do you feed baby mice?”

He lowered the pocket, and with a sharp command to the waiting dogs turned his face into the South.

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Back to God’s Country and Other Stories by James Oliver Curwood