The March of the White Guard | Page 9

towards the north. The blindman's instinct was
coming to him. Far off white eddying drifts were rising over long
hillocks of snow. When he turned round again his face was troubled. It
grew more troubled, then it brightened up again, and he said to Hume:
"Captain, would you leave that book with me till you come back--that
about infirmities, dangers, and necessities? I knew a river-boss who
used to carry an old spelling-book round with him for luck. It seems to
me as if that book of yours, Captain, would bring luck to this part of the
White Guard, that bein' out at heels like has to stay behind."
Hume had borne the sufferings of his life with courage; he had led this
terrible tramp with no tremor at his heart for himself; he was seeking to
perform a perilous act without any inward shrinking; but Jeff's request
was the greatest trial of this critical period in his life.
Jeff felt, if he could not see, the hesitation of his chief. His rough but
kind instincts told him something was wrong, and he hastened to add:
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Hume, it ain't no matter. I oughtn't have asked
you for it. But it's just like me. I've been a chain on the leg of the White
Guard this whole tramp."
The moment of hesitation had passed before Jeff had said half-a-dozen
words, and Hume put the book in his hands with the words: "No, Jeff,
take it. It will bring luck to the White Guard. Keep it safe until I come
back."
Jeff took the book, but hearing a guttural "Ugh" behind him, he turned
round defiantly. Cloud-in-the-Sky touched his arm and said: "Good!
Strong-back book--good!" Jeff was satisfied.
At this point they parted, Jeff and Gaspe Toujours remaining, and
Hume and his two followers going on towards Manitou Mountain.
There seemed little probability that Clive Lepage would be found. In
their progress eastward and northward they had covered wide areas of
country, dividing and meeting again after stated hours of travel, but not
a sign had been seen; neither cairn nor staff nor any mark of human
presence.

Hume had noticed Jeff Hyde's face when it was turned to the eddying
drifts of the north, and he understood what was in the experienced
huntsman's mind. He knew that severe weather was before them, and
that the greatest danger of the journey was to be encountered.
That night they saw Manitou Mountain, cold, colossal, harshly calm;
and jointly with that sight there arose a shrieking, biting, fearful north
wind. It blew upon them in cruel menace of conquest, in piercing
inclemency. It struck a freezing terror to their hearts, and grew in
violent attack until, as if repenting that it had foregone its power to save,
the sun suddenly grew red and angry, and spread out a shield of blood
along the bastions of the west. The wind shrank back and grew less
murderous, and ere the last red arrow shot up behind the lonely western
wall of white, the three knew that the worst of the storm had passed and
that death had drawn back for a time. What Hume thought may be
gathered from his diary; for ere he crawled in among the dogs and
stretched himself out beside Bouche, he wrote these words with aching
fingers:
January 10th: Camp 39.--A bitter day. We are facing three fears now:
the fate of those we left behind; Lepage's fate; and the going back. We
are twenty miles from Manitou Mountain. If he is found, I should not
fear the return journey; success gives hope. But we trust in God.
Another day passed and at night, after a hard march, they camped five
miles from Manitou Mountain. And not a sign! But Hume felt there
was a faint chance of Lepage being found at this mountain. His iron
frame had borne the hardships of this journey well; his strong heart
better. But this night an unaccountable weakness possessed him. Mind
and body were on the verge of helplessness. Bouche seemed to
understand this, and when he was unhitched from the team of dogs,
now dwindled to seven, he leaped upon his master's breast. It was as if
some instinct of sympathy, of prescience, was passing between the man
and the dog. Hume bent his head down to Bouche for an instant and
rubbed his side kindly; then he said, with a tired accent: "It's all right,
old dog, it's all right."
Hume did not sleep well at first, but at length oblivion came. He waked

to feel Bouche tugging at his blankets. It was noon. Late Carscallen and
Cloud-in-the-Sky were still sleeping--inanimate bundles among the
dogs. In an hour they were on their way again, and towards sunset they
had reached