WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver Curwood
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from previous experience that it would be impossible to make a descent into the gulch from the first mountain. This range, a mile south of the camp, had not been explored by the hunters, but Rod was sure that there was no danger of losing himself as long as he followed along the edge of the chasm which was in itself a constant and infallible guide. Much to his disappointment he found that the southern walls of this mysterious break between the mountains were as precipitous as those on the opposite side, and for two hours he looked in vain for a place where he might climb down. The country was now becoming densely wooded and he was constantly encountering signs of big game. But he paid little attention to these. Finally he came to a point where the forest swept over and down the steep side of the mountain, and to his great joy he saw that by strapping his snow-shoes to his back and making good use of his hands it was possible for him to make a descent.
Fifteen minutes later, breathless but triumphant, he stood at the bottom of the chasm. On his right rose the strip of cedar forest; on his left he was shut in by towering walls of black and shattered rock. At his feet was the little stream which had played such an important part in his golden dreams, frozen in places, and in others kept clear of ice by the swiftness of its current. A little ahead of him was that gloomy, sunless part of the chasm into which he had peered so often from the top of the ridge on the north. As he advanced step by step into its mysterious silence, his eyes alert, his nerves stretched to a tension of the keenest expectancy, there crept over him a feeling that he was invading that enchanted territory which, even at this moment, might be guarded by the spirits of the two mortals who had died because of the treasure it held.
Narrower and narrower became the walls high over his head. Not a ray of sunlight penetrated into the soundless gloom. Not a leaf shivered in the still air. The creek gurgled and spattered among its rocks, without the note of a bird or the chirp of a squirrel to interrupt its monotony. Everything was dead. Now and then Rod could hear the wind whispering over the top of the chasm. But not a breath of it came down to him. Under his feet was only sufficient snow to deaden his own footsteps, and he still carried his snow-shoes upon his back.
Suddenly, from the thick gloom that hung under one of the cragged walls, there came a thundering, unearthly sound that made him stop, his rifle swung half to shoulder. He saw that he had disturbed a great owl, and passed on. Now and then he paused beside the creek and took up handful after handful of its pebbles, his heart beating high with hope at every new gleam he caught among them, and never sinking to disappointment though he found no gold. The gold was here—somewhere. He was as certain of that as he was of the fact that he was living, and searching for it. Everything assured him of that; the towering masses of cleft rock, whole walls seeming about to crumble into ruin, the broad margins of pebbles along the creek—everything, to the very stillness and mystery in the air, spoke this as the abode of the skeletons' secret.
It was this inexplicable something—this unseen, mysterious element hovering in the air that caused the white youth to advance step by step, silently, cautiously, as though the slightest sound under his feet might awaken the deadliest of enemies. And it was because of this stealth in his progress that he came very close upon something that was living, and without startling it. Less than fifty yards ahead of him he saw an object moving slowly among the rocks. It was a fox. Even before the animal had detected his presence he had aimed and fired.
Thunderous echoes rose up about him. They rolled down the chasm, volume upon volume, until in the ghostly gloom between the mountain walls he stood and listened, a nervous shiver catching him once or twice. Not until the last echo had died away did he approach where the fox lay upon the snow. It was not red. It was not black. It was not—
His heart gave a big excited thump. The bleeding creature at his feet was the most beautiful animal he had ever seen—and the tip of its thick black fur was silver gray.
Then, in that lonely chasm, there went up a great human whoop of joy.
"A silver fox!"
Rod spoke the words aloud. For five minutes he stood and looked upon his prize. He held it up and stroked it, and from what Wabi and Mukoki had told him he knew that the silken pelt of this creature was worth more to them than all the furs at the camp together.
He made no effort to skin it, but put the animal in his pack and resumed his slow, noiseless exploration of the gulch.
He had now passed beyond those points in the range from which he had looked down into this narrow, shut-in world. Ever more wild and gloomy became the chasm. At times the two walls of rock seemed almost to meet far above his head; under gigantic, overhanging crags there lurked the shadows of night. Fascinated by the grandeur and loneliness of the scenes through which he was passing Rod forgot the travel of time. Mile after mile he continued his tireless trail. He had no inclination to eat. He stopped only once at the creek to drink. And when he looked at his watch he was astonished to find that it was three o'clock in the afternoon.
It was now too late to think of returning to camp. Within an hour the day gloom of the chasm would be thickening into that of night. So Rod stopped at the first good camp site, threw off his pack, and proceeded with the building of a cedar shelter. Not until this was completed and a sufficient supply of wood for the night's fire was at hand did he begin getting supper. He had brought a pail with him and soon the appetizing odors of boiling coffee and broiling moose sirloin filled the air.
Night had fallen between the mountain walls by the time Rod sat down to his meal.
CHAPTER XI
RODERICK'S DREAM
A chilling loneliness now crept over the young adventurer. Even as he ate he tried to peer out into the mysterious darkness. A sound from up the chasm, made by some wild prowler of the night, sent a nervous tremor through him. He was not afraid; he would not have confessed to that. But still, the absolute, almost gruesome silence between the two mountains, the mere knowledge that he was alone in a place where the foot of man had not trod for more than half a century, was not altogether quieting to his nerves. What mysteries might not these grim walls hold? What might not happen here, where everything was so strange, so weird, and so different from the wilderness world just over the range?
Rod tried to laugh away his nervousness, but the very sound of his own voice was distressing. It rose in unnatural shivering echoes—a low, hollow mockery of a laugh beating itself against the walls; a ghost of a laugh, Rod thought, and that very thought made him hunch closer to the fire. The young hunter was not superstitious, or at least he was not unnaturally so; but what man or boy is there in this whole wide world of ours who does not, at some time, inwardly cringe from something in the air—something that does not exist and never did exist, but which holds a peculiar and nameless fear for the soul of a human being?
And Rod, as he piled his fire high with wood and shrank in the warmth of his cedar shelter, felt that nameless dread; and there came to him no thought of sleep, no feeling of fatigue, but only that he was alone, absolutely alone, in the mystery and almost unending silence of the chasm. Try as he would he could not keep from his mind the vision of the skeletons as he had first seen them in the old cabin.
Many, many years ago, even before his own mother was born, those skeletons had trod this very chasm. They had drunk from the same creek as he, they had clambered over the same rocks, they had camped perhaps where he was camping now! They, too, in flesh and life, had strained their ears in the grim silence, they had watched the flickering light of their camp-fire on the walls of rock—and they had found gold!
Just now, if Rod could have moved himself by magic, he would have been safely back in camp. He listened. From far back over the trail he had followed there came a lonely, plaintive, almost pleading cry.
"'Ello—'ello—'ello!"
It sounded like a distant human greeting, but Rod knew that it was the awakening night cry of what Wabi called the "man owl." It was weirdly human-like; and the echoes came softly, and more softly, until ghostly voices seemed to be whispering in the blackness about him.
"'Ello—'ello—'ello!"
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