Dobrodružství v divočině

Jack London
LOVE OF LIFE


   "This out of all will remain--
      They have lived and have tossed:
   So much of the game will be gain,
      Though the gold of the dice has been lost."

They limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men
staggered among the rough-strewn rocks.  They were tired and weak, and
their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship
long endured.  They were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were
strapped to their shoulders.  Head-straps, passing across the forehead,
helped support these packs.  Each man carried a rifle.  They walked in a
stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther
forward, the eyes bent upon the ground.

"I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that's layin' in that
cache of ourn," said the second man.

His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless.  He spoke without
enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed
over the rocks, vouchsafed no reply.

The other man followed at his heels.  They did not remove their
foot-gear, though the water was icy cold--so cold that their ankles ached
and their feet went numb.  In places the water dashed against their
knees, and both men staggered for footing.

The man who followed slipped on a smooth boulder, nearly fell, but
recovered himself with a violent effort, at the same time uttering a
sharp exclamation of pain.  He seemed faint and dizzy and put out his
free hand while he reeled, as though seeking support against the air.
When he had steadied himself he stepped forward, but reeled again and
nearly fell.  Then he stood still and looked at the other man, who had
never turned his head.

The man stood still for fully a minute, as though debating with himself.
Then he called out:

"I say, Bill, I've sprained my ankle."

Bill staggered on through the milky water.  He did not look around.  The
man watched him go, and though his face was expressionless as ever, his
eyes were like the eyes of a wounded deer.

The other man limped up the farther bank and continued straight on
without looking back.  The man in the stream watched him.  His lips
trembled a little, so that the rough thatch of brown hair which covered
them was visibly agitated.  His tongue even strayed out to moisten them.

"Bill!" he cried out.

It was the pleading cry of a strong man in distress, but Bill's head did
not turn.  The man watched him go, limping grotesquely and lurching
forward with stammering gait up the slow slope toward the soft sky-line
of the low-lying hill.  He watched him go till he passed over the crest
and disappeared.  Then he turned his gaze and slowly took in the circle
of the world that remained to him now that Bill was gone.

Near the horizon the sun was smouldering dimly, almost obscured by
formless mists and vapors, which gave an impression of mass and density
without outline or tangibility.  The man pulled out his watch, the while
resting his weight on one leg.  It was four o'clock, and as the season
was near the last of July or first of August,--he did not know the
precise date within a week or two,--he knew that the sun roughly marked
the northwest.  He looked to the south and knew that somewhere beyond
those bleak hills lay the Great Bear Lake; also, he knew that in that
direction the Arctic Circle cut its forbidding way across the Canadian
Barrens.  This stream in which he stood was a feeder to the Coppermine
River, which in turn flowed north and emptied into Coronation Gulf and
the Arctic Ocean.  He had never been there, but he had seen it, once, on
a Hudson Bay Company chart.

Again his gaze completed the circle of the world about him.  It was not a
heartening spectacle.  Everywhere was soft sky-line.  The hills were all
low-lying.  There were no trees, no shrubs, no grasses--naught but a
tremendous and terrible desolation that sent fear swiftly dawning into
his eyes.

"Bill!" he whispered, once and twice; "Bill!"

He cowered in the midst of the milky water, as though the vastness were
pressing in upon him with overwhelming force, brutally crushing him with
its complacent awfulness.  He began to shake as with an ague-fit, till
the gun fell from his hand with a splash.  This served to rouse him.  He
fought with his fear and pulled himself together, groping in the water
and recovering the weapon.  He hitched his pack farther over on his left
shoulder, so as to take a portion of its weight from off the injured
ankle.  Then he proceeded, slowly and carefully, wincing with pain, to
the bank.