Luck | Page 2

something
for the boys. They're good boys."
At the freshened roar of the stove the old Indian in the corner stirred
and lifted his head, groping like an old turtle in the sunlight. He had a
curious effect of meaningless blurs and shadows. Eye and memory
could hold nothing of his insignificance. Only under smoked and
puckered lids the flickering glitter of his eyes pricked in a meaning
unreadable. Desmond looked at him with the wide good nature born of
his luck.
"I ain't going to turn you out, Old Bones," he said.
The eyes steadied on him an instant, and the old shadow spoke fair
English in the ghost of a voice.
"Thanks. You give grub. I eat, I warm, I rest. Now I go."

"Jest as you like. But have a drink first." He pushed over the dregs of
the whiskey bottle.
The old man seized it; seemed to hold it to his heart. While he could
drink whiskey he might drink and forget; when he could get no more,
he must remember and die. He drank, Lethe and Paradise in one, and
handed back the bottle.
"How," he said. "You good man. Once I had things to give, now
nothing. Nothing but dreams."
"Dreams, is it, Old Bones?"
The eyes were like cunning sparks.
"Dreams, yes," he said, with a stealthy indrawing of breath. "You good
man. I give you three dreams. See."
With a movement so swift the eye could hardly follow it, he caught
three hot wood-coals from the ash under the stove and flung them on
the floor at Desmond's feet. He bent forward, and under his breath they
woke to a moment's flame. The strangeness of his movements held
Desmond, and he also bent forward, watching. He had an instant's
impression that the coals were burning him fiercely somewhere
between the eyes, that the bars of personality were breaking, that he
was falling into some darkness that was the darkness of death. Before
his ignorance could find words for his fear, the old Indian leaned back,
the fire fled, and the spent coals were no more than rounds of empty
ash, which the old man took in his hands.
"Dreams," he said, with something that might have been a laugh. He
blew the ash like little grey feathers toward the men in the bunks. His
eyes were alive, fixed on Desmond with a meaning unreadable. He
thrust his face close. "You good man. You give me whiskey. I give you
three dreams, little dreams--for luck."
Desmond was staring at the little floating feathers of wood ash. As they
slowly sank and settled, he heard the door close and felt a sharp stab of

cold. The old Indian had gone; Desmond could hear his footsteps
dragging over the frozen crust of the snow for a little while. He got up
and shook himself. The drink had died out of him; he felt himself
suddenly and greatly weary of body and mind. The fire would last till
morning. "Dreams--dreams, for luck!" he muttered, as he rolled into the
fourth bunk. He was ready for sleep. And as he lay down and yielded to
the oncoming of sleep, as a weed yields to the tide, he knew of a swift,
clear certainty that he would dream.
Chapter II
HE opened his eyes to the pale flood of day; Lajeune was cooking pork
and making coffee; Ohlsen was making snow shoes; Forbes bent over
his bunk, black against the blind square of the frozen window, feeling
blindly with his hands, and snuffling a little as he spoke:
"We'd ha' let you sleep on, but we wanted to know what you'd be doing.
Will ye stay here with me and the rest--I'm all but blind the day--or will
ye go into Fort Recompense with Jooney here and the dogs, and put the
dust in safety? Or will ye try to short cut across the pass with Ohlsen?"
Desmond stretched, grunted, and hesitated. He felt curiously unwilling
to decide. But Forbes was waiting, his yellow fingers twitching on the
end of the bunk.
"Oh, I dunno," he said. "What's the hurry? Well---I guess I'll try the
pass with Ohlsen."
"Right." Ohlsen nodded his heavy head, for he seldom spoke. He had
the physique men always associate with a kind and stupid fidelity.
Desmond said of him, "Them that talks most ain't the best at heart."
Desmond said it to himself as he rolled out of the bunk for breakfast.
Forbes stayed in his bunk, and made little moaning animal noises while
he fed. Lajeune bubbled over with quick laughter. Desmond beamed on
everyone and talked of his luck. Ohlsen sat immovable, working his
jaws like an ox, watching Desmond with his small, pale eyes.

He did not speak as they drew on