to side as she sat, with a faith that was piteous. But even more piteous was the fact that none of her companions took the least notice, either by sympathy or complaint, of her aberration. When, a few moments later, she called upon them to be quiet, for that "baby" was asleep, they glared at her indifferently and went on. A red-haired man, who was chewing a piece of buffalo hide, cast a single murderous glance at her, but the next moment seemed to have forgotten her presence in his more absorbing occupation.
The stranger paused a moment rather to regain his breath than to wait for their more orderly and undivided attention. Then he uttered the single word:
"Nothing!"
"Nothing!" They all echoed the word simultaneously, but with different inflection and significance – one fiercely, another gloomily, another stupidly, another mechanically. The woman with the blanket baby explained to it, "he says 'nothing,'" and laughed.
"No – nothing," repeated the speaker. "Yesterday's snow blocked up the old trail again. The beacon on the summit's burnt out. I left a notice at the Divide. Do that again, Dumphy, and I'll knock the top of your ugly head off."
Dumphy, the red-haired man, had rudely shoved and stricken the woman with the baby – she was his wife, and this conjugal act may have been partly habit – as she was crawling nearer the speaker. She did not seem to notice the blow or its giver – the apathy with which these people received blows or slights was more terrible than wrangling – but said assuringly, when she had reached the side of the young man —
"To-morrow, then?"
The face of the young man softened as he made the same reply he had made for the last eight days to the same question —
"To-morrow, surely!"
She crawled away, still holding the effigy of her dead baby very carefully, and retreated down the opening.
"'Pears to me you don't do much anyway, out scouting! 'Pears to me you ain't worth shucks!" said the harsh-voiced woman, glancing at the speaker. "Why don't some on ye take his place? Why do you trust your lives and the lives of women to that thar Ashley?" she continued, with her voice raised to a strident bark.
The hysterical young man, Henry March, who sat next to her, turned a wild scared face upon her, and then, as if fearful of being dragged into the conversation, disappeared hastily after Mrs. Dumphy.
Ashley shrugged his shoulders, and, replying to the group, rather than any individual speaker, said curtly —
"There's but one chance – equal for all – open to all. You know what it is. To stay here is death; to go cannot be worse than that."
He rose and walked slowly away up the cañon a few rods to where another mound was visible, and disappeared from their view. When he had gone, a querulous chatter went around the squatting circle.
"Gone to see the old Doctor and the gal. We're no account."
"Thar's two too many in this yer party."
"Yes – the crazy Doctor and Ashley."
"They're both interlopers, any way."
"Jonahs."
"Said no good could come of it, ever since we picked him up."
"But the Cap'n invited the ol' Doctor, and took all his stock at Sweetwater, and Ashley put in his provisions with the rest."
The speaker was McCormick. Somewhere in the feeble depths of his consciousness there was still a lingering sense of justice. He was hungry, but not unreasonable. Besides, he remembered with a tender regret the excellent quality of provision that Ashley had furnished.
"What's that got to do with it?" screamed Mrs. Brackett. "He brought the bad luck with him. Ain't my husband dead, and isn't that skunk – an entire stranger – still livin'?"
The voice was masculine, but the logic was feminine. In cases of great prostration with mental debility, in the hopeless vacuity that precedes death by inanition or starvation, it is sometimes very effective. They all assented to it, and, by a singular intellectual harmony, the expression of each was the same. It was simply an awful curse.
"What are you goin' to do?"
"If I was a man, I'd know!"
"Knife him!"
"Kill him, and" —
The remainder of this sentence was lost to the others in a confidential whisper between Mrs. Brackett and Dumphy. After this confidence they sat and wagged their heads together, like two unmatched but hideous Chinese idols.
"Look at his strength! and he not a workin' man like us," said Dumphy. "Don't tell me he don't get suthin' reg'lar."
"Suthin' what?"
"Suthin' TO EAT!"
But it is impossible to convey, even by capitals, the intense emphasis put upon this verb. It was followed by a horrible pause.
"Let's go and see."
"And kill him?" suggested the gentle Mrs. Brackett.
They all rose with a common interest almost like enthusiasm. But after they had tottered a few steps, they fell. Yet even then there was not enough self-respect left among them to feel any sense of shame or mortification in their baffled design. They stopped – all except Dumphy.
"Wot's that dream you was talkin' 'bout jess now?" said Mr. McCormick, sitting down and abandoning the enterprise with the most shameless indifference.
"'Bout the dinner at St. Jo?" asked the person addressed – a gentleman whose faculty of alimentary imagination had been at once the bliss and torment of his present social circle.
"Yes."
They all gathered eagerly around Mr. McCormick; even Mr. Dumphy, who was still moving away, stopped.
"Well," said Mr. March, "it began with beefsteak and injins – beefsteak, you know, juicy and cut very thick, and jess squashy with gravy and injins." There was a very perceptible watering of the mouth in the party, and Mr. March, with the genius of a true narrator, under the plausible disguise of having forgotten his story, repeated the last sentence – "jess squashy with gravy and injins. And taters – baked."
"You said fried before! – and dripping with fat!" interposed Mrs. Brackett, hastily.
"For them as likes fried – but baked goes furder – skins and all – and sassage and coffee and flapjacks!"
At this magical word they laughed, not mirthfully perhaps, but eagerly and expectantly, and said, "Go on!"
"And flapjacks!"
"You said that afore," said Mrs. Brackett, with a burst of passion. "Go on!" with an oath.
The giver of this Barmecide feast saw his dangerous position, and looked around for Dumphy, but he had disappeared.
CHAPTER II.
WITHIN
The hut into which Ashley descended was like a Greenlander's "iglook," below the surface of the snow. Accident rather than design had given it this Arctic resemblance. As snow upon snow had blocked up its entrance, and reared its white ladders
