Dillon Wallace

Tighter and tighter grew the grip of winter. As January advanced the days grew longer, and the weather became more bitterly and terribly cold. The great white, limitless wilderness was frozen now into a silence awful in its solemnity. Even the wild creatures of the forest feared the blighting hand of the frost king, and lay quiet in their lairs, and the traps yielded small returns for the tremendous effort put forth by the hunters. It seemed to David and Andy as they plodded the dreary trails during this period that they were the only living things in all the silent, solitary world.

Sudden and terrible, too, were the storms—so terrible that no man could have resisted exposure to them. And sometimes the trappers were held prisoners for days at a time in the tilts, for to have gone forth would have been to go to certain destruction.

This was a trying period. Idleness always breeds discontent, and the trappers chafed, and became moody, when storms interfered with the regular routine of their work. Following the Christmas celebration, Indian Jake lapsed into his customary habit of long, silent broodings, when he seemed to have no wish for companionship and was scarcely aware of the boys’ presence.

“We’ve been goin’ long enough to be at the tilt,” said David

With the end of February and coming of March the cold gradually, though reluctantly, lessened. The animals began again to stir more actively and the traps to yield, as in earlier winter. There were still the storms to contend against, however. They came now with even less warning than formerly, and David and Andy found themselves in many a tight pinch, and had adventures a-plenty, but adventure is the daily portion of the trapper. They suffered with frost-bitten cheeks and noses now and again, but they never thought of this as a hardship. Every one who ventures forth in a Labrador winter expects sooner or later to have frost-bitten cheeks and nose, and seldom is he disappointed.

“I’m wishin’, now, I had my snow glasses here, but they’re down in th’ tilt,” remarked David one bright morning in early April when the snow, reflecting the sun rays, glistened with dazzling brilliancy.

“I’m wishin’ I had mine, too, but I didn’t bring un, either,” said Andy. “’Twas a bit hazy when we left th’ tilt, and I didn’t think I’d need un.”

“’Tis time t’ wear un now, and we mustn’t come out again without un, whether ’tis hazy or no. There’ll be a bad glare on th’ snow out on th’ mesh today,” David predicted.

“’Twon’t be long now till we strikes up th’ traps, will it?” asked Andy.

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“Th’ fur’ll be good till th’ end of April, and we’ll strike up th’ end of April, whatever,” said David.

“I’m wonderin’ and wonderin’ how Pop’s leg is, and how th’ mist in Jamie’s eyes is. I’ll be wonderful glad t’ get home,” and there was longing in Andy’s voice.

“I hope Pop’s ’most well, and th’ mist isn’t gettin’ thicker. I been wonderin’ and wonderin’, too.”

“We got a fine lot o’ fur, Davy. Pop’ll be wonderful glad.”

“That he will. We’ve got ’most as much as Pop got last year.”

“With Pop’s share o’ Indian Jake’s, and with what Doctor Joe gets, I’m thinkin’ there’ll be plenty t’ pay for Jamie’s goin’ t’ have th’ great doctor cut th’ mist away and maybe t’ pay for part of next year’s outfit too.”

“Aye, plenty, but I has a wonderful strange feelin’ lately, Andy, about Indian Jake not tellin’ what fur he has. Indian Jake’s fine, though, and I take it ’tis just his way.”

“He don’t talk much, Davy.”

“No, he don’t talk much, and he never tells us what fur he’s gettin’. I wonders why?”

“I wonders why, now?”

Thus discussing Indian Jake’s strange behavior and stranger reticence, and conversing of home, a subject of which they never tired, they traveled on and out upon the dazzling white of the marsh. As David had predicted, the glare was intense, and when they reached the cluster of spruce trees where they were accustomed to boil their kettle for dinner at midday, Andy complained that his eyes pained him badly and he could not see aright.

“We’ll wait a bit, till th’ noon glare is past,” suggested David. “There’s plenty o’ time t’ get back t’ th’ tilt, with th’ long day now. My eyes hurt wonderful bad too.”

So they built up their fire and for an hour lounged upon a seat of spruce boughs they had arranged, holding their eyes closed, while they talked, to relieve them from the intense light reflected by the snow. The rest, however, was of no avail. The pain in their eyes grew steadily worse, and it was becoming more difficult to raise the lids, and presently David announced that they had best return to the tilt as quickly as possible.

“’Tis hard t’ see anything,” said Andy, as they set forth.

“’Tis snowblindness. We’ll go straight for th’ tilt,” suggested David, “and not stop t’ fix th’ traps.”

A wind was springing up and very soon the sky became overcast. In a little while snow began to fall. David in advance, Andy directly behind him, the two walked for a time in silence. At length David stopped.

“Andy, b’y, can you see th’ trail?” he asked. “My eyes is wonderful bad.”

“No,” said Andy, “’tis growing dark t’ me.”

The snow thickened as they plodded along, and the rising wind whirled it about in clouds.

“’Twill be a nasty night,” remarked David at the end of another hour.

“’Twill that,” agreed Andy.

“I’m glad we turned back when we did,” said David.

For a long time neither spoke. Both were stumbling. The pain in their eyes was intense, and it was only with the greatest effort that they could open them for brief intervals.

“We’ve been goin’ long enough t’ be at th’ tilt,” said David, breaking the silence again.

“I were thinkin’ so,” said Andy.

Again they walked on in silence, each with the fear in his heart that they were lost, but neither voicing it until suddenly David stopped with the exclamation:

“We’re not on th’ mesh at all, Andy! We’re on th’ river!”

And sure enough, turning to the right they discovered the thick willow hedge which lined the river bank.

“Th’ snow is so deep on th’ ice I didn’t know th’ difference,” explained David.

“And I didn’t know th’ difference,” said Andy.

“We missed th’ tilt, and—and I’m afraid we’ll have a hard time, between th’ blindness and th’ storm, findin’ it, Andy,” David said, hesitatingly.

“We’ll—we’ll have a hard time,” agreed Andy.

“But,” said David, with hope in his voice, “if we keeps goin’ down th’ river we’ll come t’ th’ Half-way tilt, whatever, and from th’ time we been walkin’ we must have come a long way down th’ river now. If we keeps goin’ we’ll sure come t’ th’ Half-way tilt before dark.”

“We’ll sure come to un if we keeps goin’,” said Andy.

“Keep plenty o’ grit,” cheered David.

“Aye, plenty o’ grit—and a stout heart,” said Andy.

The wind was steadily increasing, and even now driving the snow down the river valley in suffocating clouds, but the two boys kept bravely on. Once Andy fell, and David helped him up, and a little later he stumbled and fell again, and again David helped him to his feet.

“I’m—wonderful—tired,” said Andy.

“’Tis wearisome work,” soothed David.

“’Tis growin’ night,” said Andy.

“Aye, ’tis growin’ night,” David admitted reluctantly.

Again and again Andy stumbled and fell, and presently David relieved him of his rifle and carried both his own and Andy’s.

“I’m—so—sleepy,” breathed Andy.

“Keep your grit, Andy,” David cheered, though his own voice betrayed the overpowering weariness that was stealing over him.

“We’ll—keep—our—grit,” murmured Andy in a strange and scarcely intelligible voice.

Whenever Andy fell now, as he did with growing frequency, David found it necessary to exert his utmost strength to lift the boy to his feet. At length the horrible truth forced itself upon David. Half blind and exhausted, they were hopelessly lost in the wilderness, amidst the terrors of a northern blizzard.

Staggering with weariness and exhaustion, he dragged the half unconscious Andy through the first fortunate opening in the willow brush upon which he stumbled as he blindly groped his way. In doing so he had a vague, forlorn hope that in the shelter of the forest he might succeed in kindling a fire. But here, as everywhere, utter darkness surrounded him, made darker by his attack of snowblindness, and he dared not release for an instant his grip upon Andy’s arm, in fear that he might lose him.

Now, when Andy fell, David, who held his arm, fell with him, and lying there a sense of vast relief stole over David, and he wished to sleep. He could hear the wind shrieking and moaning through the tree tops. It seemed far away, and lying there in the snow beyond its reach he was warm and comfortable, and his eyes were heavy. Suddenly the realization that they must keep moving at whatever cost of effort flashed upon his brain, and rising to his knees he shook Andy, and with desperation called to him to get up, and finally dragged himself and Andy to their feet.

“Keep—your—grit—Andy! We—must—keep our—grit, b’y!” he encouraged.

“Keep—our—grit,” mumbled Andy, and the two staggered forward again.

And then there came before David’s half-closed, blinded eyes what appeared like a dim cloud of fire, rising out of the blackness. Clinging to Andy’s arm, he lurched forward, and stumbled and fell, with Andy by his side, and with the far-away moan of the wind in his ears, like distant unearthly voices. And now he lay still and did not try to rise.