The Cryptogram Part 29

"One--two--three!" I whispered.

Bang! The two reports were simultaneous. Under the rising powder smoke the buck was seen to spring in air and then topple over in a quivering ma.s.s, dead beyond a doubt. The cras.h.i.+ng echoes rolled away into the depths of the forest. We were on our feet instantly, ready to run forward with drawn knives; but before we could do so an unexpected thing checked us. Up the valley behind us, from a point no great distance off, rang a shrill, wavering call. As we listened, staring at one another with alarmed faces, we heard the sound again. And now it was a plain call for help.

"What man can be in this lonely spot?" exclaimed Carteret. "Our ears deceive us. It is the scream of a crafty panther we hear."

"No; it is a human voice," muttered the captain. "I'll swear to that.

But I am afraid of a trick."

"If enemies were about they would have no need to lure us," I replied.

"Come, let us see what it means."

I started in the direction of the sound, and my companions followed me.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

THE TRAVELER FROM ALASKA.

Although the cries for help had now ceased, and were not repeated, our search was crowned with success in a brief time. Pus.h.i.+ng up the valley for about five hundred yards, amid trees and thickets, we came suddenly upon a little camp. A lean-to of spruce boughs was rudely built against the base of the steep hill on the right, which towered upward above it to a dizzy and remote height, its alternate patches of timber and snow traced out by the moonlight.

The front of the lean-to was open, and inside, by the glow from a handful of smouldering embers, we saw a strange sight. In the far corner, apparently sleeping, lay an old man. On a small sledge near him were a powder horn, and bullet pouch, a musket and a few pelts.

There was no reply to our sharp greeting, and we ventured closer.

Carteret found some bits of dry wood and threw them on the fire. He knelt down and blew them quickly into a blaze, which enabled us to see more distinctly. The old man was breathing heavily, and it needed but a glance to tell us that he was near to death from starvation or some illness. His head rested on a pillow of skins, and he was rolled partly in blankets, which were pushed off enough to show his tattered and travel-worn clothing. His cheeks were deeply sunken, his gray hair was long and matted, and his tangled beard reached nearly to his waist.

"There is not a sign of food," said I.

"It's a clear case of starvation," replied Captain Rudstone. "Poor old chap!"

Just then, roused from his stupor by our voices, or by the warmth of the fire, the stranger opened his eyes and looked about him wildly. He clawed at the air with skinny fingers, and tried to speak. I had a little rum with me, and I poured it between his lips. This brought a tinge of color to his cheeks and a brightness to his glazing eyes, but he was too weak to lift his head.

"Who are you?" he muttered faintly. "Friends? Ay, thank G.o.d! White faces once more--after all these months! I heard the shot, and judged that Indians or trappers were near. I called as loudly as I could, but--but --"

"The exertion was too much for you and you fainted," said I. "But we heard your cries, and found you. How long have you been here?"

"Three days," he answered--"three days and nights without food. I ate the last bite when I reached this spot, and a fortnight before I had fired my last charge of powder and ball. I was too ill to go further. I built this shelter to die in, and from time to time I crawled out for fuel to keep up the fire. But the end is close now. Don't leave me--let me die with white faces round me."

"Cheer up, my friend," said Captain Rudstone. "You are going to live."

"We have a deer yonder," I added. "We will make you a venison broth, and then take you to the fort, where the rest of our party await us."

But Carteret, who had the keener eye, shook his head gravely.

"It is no use," he whispered.

The old man heard him.

"Ay, you are right," he said. "I am past help. I feel death stealing over me. Months of privation have worn out my rugged frame--this frightful wilderness has drained my life blood. Comrades, I have journeyed on foot from the far province of Alaska."

Carteret shrugged his shoulders, and the captain and I exchanged incredulous glances. Doubtless the stranger's mind was wandering.

"You think me mad," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "But no; I will prove otherwise.

Listen to my story. It is the last service you can do me, and you will find it well worth hearing."

His manner was so earnest that we began to believe a little in spite of ourselves. We crouched on the blanket alongside of him, and in a voice that was barely audible--he was failing fast--the old man proceeded. The earlier part of his narrative, which was the least interesting, I will set down briefly in my own words.

His name was Hiram Buckhorn, and he was now sixty odd years of age. Half of his life had been pa.s.sed in New York State and the Lower Canadas, and then he had gone across the continent to San Francisco. From that port he sailed with a dozen adventurous companions two years previously to explore the almost unknown territory of Alaska and prospect for gold.

They sailed hundreds of miles up the mighty Yukon, and when their vessel was wrecked they journeyed some days inland on foot.

"And we found what we sought," he continued, with sparkling eyes--"riches such as were never dreamed of! Gold? Why, men, it was as plentiful as the sand and gravel! The streams were paved with nuggets; it was everywhere under the soil! Our camp was near a tributary of the Yukon, and within a square mile was gold enough to purchase a dozen empires; but many a year will pa.s.s before men lay hands on the treasure.

It is a terrible country--almost impossible to reach, and there is scarcely any summer season. And then the savage Indians! They fell upon us suddenly and treacherously, and butchered every one of my comrades.

For some reason they spared my life and held me a prisoner."

The old man paused a moment, breathing heavily. "After a month of captivity, during which my sufferings were terrible, I managed to escape," he went on, in a weaker voice. "I could not return through Alaska, so I headed to the southeast through the Hudson Bay Company's territory. I had musket and powder and ball--which I recovered from the Indians--and I built myself a rude sledge. This was thirteen months ago and since then I have been on the way. Ay, I have plodded more than fifteen hundred miles, through all seasons, over rivers, mountains, and plains. And to what end? To fill a grave in the wilderness! I had hoped to reach civilization, but the task was too great."

Such was Hiram Buckhorn's narrative, and when it was finished we looked silently at him with awe and amazement, with the deepest pity. His exploit had far surpa.s.sed anything in the annals of the pioneers of the Northwest. Fifteen hundred miles, on foot and alone, through an untrodden wilderness that even the Hudson Bay Company had never dreamed of tapping! It bore the stamp of truth, and yet it was so incredible a thing that we wavered between doubt and belief.

He noted this, and a grim smile flitted across his face.

"You shall see!" he whispered. "Reach under my head! Be quick!"

I gently thrust a hand beneath the pillow of skins, and drew out a small but heavy bag fas.h.i.+oned of rawhide. At his bidding I placed it beside the old man. With a hard effort, he loosed the mouth and turned the big upside down. Out fell on the fold of a blanket a ma.s.s of golden nuggets of the purest quality. There were not less than fifty, of large size, and they gleamed dull yellow in the rays of the fire. The sight almost took our breath, and we gazed with greedy, wondering eyes.

"Look! I spoke the truth," said Hiram Buckhorn. "There is the evidence!

Millions like them are to be dug in the region of the Klondike! But put them back--their glitter is no longer for me!"

I hurriedly gathered the nuggets into the bag and thrust it deep under the skins again. The old man watched every movement and heaved a faint sigh.

"The gold is yours, my friend," he muttered. "Take it and divide it when you have put me beneath the snow. And one other favor I crave. Send word at the first opportunity to San Francisco, of the fate of those who sailed with me. They were trusty comrades! As for myself, I have no kith or kin--"

His voice suddenly dwindled to a whisper, and a spasm shook him from head to foot. His gla.s.sy eyes closed, he lifted one hand and dropped it, and then his heaving chest was still.

"Is he dead?" I exclaimed.

"Ay, that was his last breath," replied Carteret. "He went quickly."

"The excitement finished him," said Captain Rudstone. "But listen! What is that?"

We looked at one another with startled faces. Far, far above us we heard a roaring, grinding noise, increasing each second. And we knew only too well what it meant!

"A snowslide--an avalanche!" cried Captain Rudstone. "It has started at the top, and will carry everything before it down the hill."

"Ran for your lives!" shouted Carteret. "We're in the track, and will hardly escape as it is!"

In a trice we were out of the lean-to, panic-stricken and alarmed, thinking of nothing but our lives; for of all perils of the Great Lone Land, the snow slide, with its speed and destructive power, was the most to be dreaded. We forgot the dead man--the gold under his pillow. We sped down the valley as though on wings, not daring to look up the hillside, where the avalanche was cleaving its way with a deafening noise, with the crash of falling trees, the grind of dislodged bowlders, and the roar of tons and tons of loosened snow. And the monster seemed to be reaching for us!