# The Trail of the Golden Horn/Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15
The Truce of the Storm
UNDER the most favourable circumstances a northern trail in the dead winter is a test of endurance. There is the stinging cold, the weary tread hour after hour, up hill and down, with no prospect of a hot supper waiting at the end of the day’s march. It is hard and discouraging enough then, but how much more difficult when the snow-shoes are merely rough, heavy makeshifts, the webs too loose to support the feet in a proper manner, and the frames occasionally giving way beneath the strain. In addition to all this and the weariness, to have little to eat, and no comfortable resting place at night.
Such were the conditions under which the three wayfarers plodded slowly onward the next day. North and Rolfe found it hard, but Marion a great deal harder. The snow-shoes which had caused her so much pride seemed like great clogs to her feet. She longed to throw them aside, but that was out of the question. So wearily she struggled forward, doing her best to keep up with the men, who were even then travelling at a snail’s pace for her sake. The sergeant longed to help her, but as they were moving in Indian file he could do little to assist. Several times he tried to walk by her side, holding her arm and letting her lean on him for support. But the snow was too deep, and each time he floundered around on his wretched snow-​shoes, and was always glad to get back on the trail again.
That day they were able to make only a few miles, and camped early, greatly fatigued. Once more little brush shelters were made, their meat supper eaten, after which they gathered close to the fire for warmth. The sergeant was anxious about Marion. She looked more weary than he had ever seen her before. But she assured him that she was feeling fine, only tired, that was all. In the morning she would be once more ready for the trail.
“I have been trying Mr. Rolfe’s plan all day,” she said, “and have been repeating verses which I learned years ago, especially old familiar hymns. It was certainly a great help. I thought of what the Bishop of the Yukon once told me. You remember how he and another man nearly lost their lives in crossing the mountains from Fort McPherson. When they were in terrible straits, not knowing where they were, worn to shadows, and forced to eat their muck-lucks to keep life in their bodies, the Bishop was greatly encouraged by the words of the hymn ‘Go labour on, spend and be spent.’ You can add the Bishop’s testimony and mine, Mr. Rolfe, to support your claim of the influence of poetry.”
“Indeed I shall, Miss Brisbane,” the constable declared. “When I go outside, if I ever live to get there, I am going to give a lecture on the influence of poetry. As examples, I shall relate the experiences of you, the Bishop, and General Wolfe, as well as my own.”
“What about you, John?” Marion asked, turning to the sergeant, who was seated by her side. “Haven’t you something to add to such imposing witnesses?”
“I am afraid not,” was the quiet reply. “The only ​poetry I ever learned was ‘God save the King,’ and but one verse of that.”
“Ugh! that isn’t poetry, sergeant,” Rolfe retorted. “That’s nothing but doggerel.”
“It may be as you say, Tom, but there’s something in it, for all that, which stirs the heart. The singing of that kept the spirit of loyalty alive in this country, and sent hundreds of thousands of men overseas during the Great War. It sent me, anyway, and brought me back again to the north to serve the King when the war was over. You may read and quote poetry all you like, Tom, but the finest poetry, to my way of thinking, is found in worthy deeds of service. I can’t sing a note of the National Anthem, and yet, perhaps, my work up here in trying to carry out true British justice is worth something. I hope so, at any rate.”
The constable was surprised at this outburst, for the sergeant was a man of few words. He made no comment, however, but rose to his feet and piled more wood upon the fire. What his thoughts were, he kept to himself as he sat and watched the leaping flames and the sparks dancing and circling up into the darkness. Marion and North sat upon the opposite side near each other. Occasionally he glanced toward them as they conversed together in low tones. A longing was entering his own heart for the love and confidence of such a woman as Marion Brisbane. Hitherto, he had thought little about it, being content with his wandering life. But now he felt indescribably lonely. He seized a stick and stirred the fire, which did not at all need stirring. Then his pent-up feelings had to be given expression. He again rose to his feet, and looking over at his companions began:
“‘Tis sweet to hear the watch-dogs’ honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home, ’Tis sweet to know an eye will mark our coming, And grow brighter when we come.”
“Getting sentimental, Tom, eh?” the sergeant queried.
“Why shouldn’t I?” was the retort. “It’s catching, I guess.”
The night was a hard one. The men took turns keeping the fire going, but they slept little, owing to the cold. Marion determined to take her share in watching, and the men did not oppose her wish. But when at last, through extreme weariness, she did fall asleep, North and Rolfe took off their short heavy coats, and laid them over her body, the same as they had done the night before. Upon waking, she had chided them for doing such a thing, and told them that they must not again run any risk for her sake. The men had merely smiled, and remained silent.
In the morning Marion felt very stiff and sore from the unaccustomed exertions of the previous day. She said nothing, however, as they started once more upon the trail. But she could not deceive the sergeant, and he felt greatly worried. He knew that she could not travel far that day, only a few miles at the most. Something had to be done, and he turned over in his mind the best course to pursue. For a time he could not decide, but when Rolfe began to limp painfully, owing to an attack of snow-shoe cramp, he hesitated no longer.
“Look here,” he began, “we shall never reach The Gap at the pace we are going, and now that Tom is knocked out, matters are worse than ever. You two must camp here while I go for assistance. I can reach ​The Gap before night, round up a team of dogs and come back early to-morrow.”
Marion’s face turned pale at the suggestion, although she said nothing. Rolfe knew that the sergeant was right, although he felt badly at being forced to give up.
“‘Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!’” he quoted.
“‘This is the state of man—’”
“Never mind about your greatness,” the sergeant interrupted. “We know all about that, and also your state at the present time. Get to work at once and build as good a shelter as you can. There’s a fine clump of trees right over there,” and he motioned to the left. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
He then turned to Marion, who was standing silently near.
“Tom will look after you,” he told her. “Except for his poetry, he is all right. He needs to be brought back to earth occasionally, that’s all.”
He then stooped and kissed her. For a few seconds she clung to him, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Take care of yourself, John,” she said, “I am sorry to give you so much trouble. But for me, you both would be at The Gap by this time. But, there, I must not detain you any longer.”
Hour after hour North moved on his way, up hill and down, through thick woods and across barren regions. He was greatly hampered by his miserable snow-shoes. They lacked the spring and buoyancy of the ones he had lost. Often they clogged with snow, and he could not tell at what minute they might go to pieces. He was forced to use the greatest care as he well knew how much depended upon his getting to The Gap for ​assistance. Should anything happen to him, then Marion and the constable would both perish.
For some time he had been anxiously watching the sky, which was a dull leaden color. He knew that a storm was not far away, and already the wind was wailing among the trees. He hoped to outrace it, and if he could cross a bad desolate tract of burnt land which he knew was ahead before the tempest burst, he would feel quite secure. A storm in the mountains was a thing to be dreaded. The weather had been fine of late, exceptionally so, but he knew that it could not continue. The storm was overdue, and when it did come, it was likely to be a most furious one.
Ere long fine particles of snow filled the air, and flecked his body. They soon grew thicker, and by the time he had reached the edge of the burnt region the storm was most menacing. He looked anxiously out into the open where the snow, driven by the now unimpeded wind, resembled the levelled lances of thousands of mystic legions of the north. To go back he must not. His only course was forward, with the hope that he might reach the opposite side before the trail became completely obliterated.
Removing a mass of snow from his snow-shoes, and drawing his cap more firmly about his face, North left the shelter of the forest and plunged out into the driving storm. With head bent, and eyes fixed upon the rapidly disappearing trail, he pressed steadily forward. It was a hard struggle, and the cold was intense, piercing his body. At length his progress became slower. His feet would slip provokingly off the snow-shoes, and at times he found himself floundering around in the deep snow, and only regaining the trail with considerable difficulty. Often, too, he was forced to pause ​for breath, and to beat his hands together in order to get some warmth into his numbed fingers. He realised the seriousness of his situation, but he was determined not to give up. He must reach the forest beyond. Marion’s life depended upon his efforts, and he must not fail her. Again he struggled back upon the trail from which he had wandered. Once more he peered keenly ahead, hoping to catch sight of the friendly trees. But everything was blotted from view, and his eyes ached from the lashing of the cruel snow.
At length he felt that he could go no farther. He was becoming bewildered. The roar of the wind sounded like a demon hurling itself upon him. He groped for the trail like a blind man. He was almost waist-deep in the snow, and the snow-shoes were off his feet. His body was becoming numb. But he would not give up. He would fight the monster, and win out. With another frantic effort he threw himself forward, his hands reaching out. Then he lifted up his voice in one great cry of despair, the first that had ever come from his lips in all his years of service in the Force.
And as he stood there, his face turned appealingly toward the forest, the form of a man bending to the wind suddenly hove in sight. So unexpected was this appearance that the sergeant gave a gasp of surprise. The man seemed more than human as he advanced with long strides. The storm whipping his great body appeared not to impede him in the least. He was about to pass when North hailed him.
“Help! help!” he cried.
The traveller stopped short, swung quickly around, rubbed the snow from his eyes, and peered keenly in the direction from which the sound had come. In​stantly North recognised Hugo, the trapper, and unconsciously his numbed right hand groped for his revolver. Hugo, too, recognised the sergeant, and noticing the movement of his hand, he gave a roar of warning.
“Drop that,” he ordered. “Heavens! man, are you crazy? This is no time or place to pull a gun. What could you do against me? I guess you’d better wait. What’s wrong, anyway?”
“I’m all in,” was the reply.
“H’m, you look it,” Hugo growled, as he stepped closer. “All in but your spirit, eh? Man, I like your pluck. Here, take my hand, and I’ll lift you out of that hole.”
In another minute North was standing upon the trail, and then the two men faced each other. The wind swirled the snow in furious gusts about their bodies, at times almost hiding each other from view. North was the first to speak.
“You are my prisoner,” he said. “I order you to surrender.”
Hugo’s only reply was to throw back his head, and emit a roar of laughter.
“Do you think I am joking?” the sergeant sternly asked. “I am on duty, remember, so your best plan is to obey.”
“Surrender! what am I to surrender, man? I’m here, but what are you going to do with me? From all appearances you had better surrender to me, and let me get you out of this. Let us stop this fooling and settle down to business.”
“And you won’t fight?” North asked in surprise.
Hugo reached out, laid a heavy hand upon the sergeant’s shoulder, and shook him.
​“Wake up,” he ordered. “What’s the matter with you? Do you realize where you are? Fight! I’m not going to fight a half-crazed man.”
The rough shake and the plain words brought North to his senses. He looked around for an instant, and then his eyes sought his rescuer’s face.
“Forgive me,” he said. “But I guess I have been a little off my base. And no wonder. I’ve been in hell.”
“True to your orders, for all that, eh?” Hugo queried. “Lost, half frozen, daft, and yet hanging on like a bulldog. Lord! is it any wonder that the Force is what it is when it contains men like you? But tell me, where is my daughter?”
“Marion?”
“Yes.”
“Back there with Constable Rolfe. I was on my way to The Gap for aid when this storm knocked me out. Will you help me?”
“Is it a truce, then?” Hugo asked.
“A truce to what?”
“To our enmity. We are enemies, so it seems. But we must be friends for a time to save my daughter.”
“Yes, and to save the girl I love, and who has promised to be my wife,” the sergeant replied.
Hugo’s face darkened and a terrible temptation smote his heart. It was only for an instant, however, and then reaching out, he seized North’s mittened hand.
“It is well,” he simply said. “Let it be the truce of the storm.”