Luck | Page 2

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 their furs and packed the gold; nor as they turned out of the shack, shutting the door swiftly behind them, and faced the stinging splendour of the windy winter day. The cold had lessened with the sunrise, but