lost face(丢失的脸)-第7节
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time； on that precipitous wall； he realized how tired he was。 He crept and
crawled like a crab； burdened by the weight of his limbs。 A distinct and
painful effort of will was required each time he lifted a foot。 An
hallucination came to him that he was shod with lead； like a deep…sea diver；
and it was all he could do to resist the desire to reach down and feel the
lead。 As for Bondell's gripsack； it was inconceivable that forty pounds
could weigh so much。 It pressed him down like a mountain； and he
looked back with unbelief to the year before； when he had climbed that
same pass with a hundred and fifty pounds on his back。 If those loads
had weighed a hundred and fifty pounds； then Bondell's grip weighed five
hundred。
The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a small glacier。
Here was a well…defined trail。 But above the glacier； which was also
above timber…line； was naught but a chaos of naked rock and enormous
boulders。 There was no way of seeing the trail in the darkness； and he
blundered on； paying thrice the ordinary exertion for all that he
accomplished。 He won the summit in the thick of howling wind and
driving snow； providentially stumbling upon a small； deserted tent； into
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which he crawled。 There he found and bolted some ancient fried
potatoes and half a dozen raw eggs。
When the snow ceased and the wind eased down； he began the almost
impossible descent。 There was no trail； and he stumbled and blundered；
often finding himself； at the last moment； on the edge of rocky walls and
steep slopes the depth of which he had no way of judging。 Part way
down； the stars clouded over again； and in the consequent obscurity he
slipped and rolled and slid for a hundred feet； landing bruised and
bleeding on the bottom of a large shallow hole。 From all about him arose
the stench of dead horses。 The hole was handy to the trail； and the
packers had made a practice of tumbling into it their broken and dying
animals。 The stench overpowered him； making him deadly sick； and as
in a nightmare he scrambled out。 Half…way up； he recollected Bondell's
gripsack。 It had fallen into the hole with him； the pack…strap had
evidently broken； and he had forgotten it。 Back he went into the
pestilential charnel…pit； where he crawled around on hands and knees and
groped for half an hour。 Altogether he encountered and counted
seventeen dead horses （and one horse still alive that he shot with his
revolver） before he found Bondell's grip。 Looking back upon a life that
had not been without valour and achievement； he unhesitatingly declared
to himself that this return after the grip was the most heroic act he had
ever performed。 So heroic was it that he was twice on the verge of
fainting before he crawled out of the hole。
By the time he had descended to the Scales； the steep pitch of Chilcoot
was past； and the way became easier。 Not that it was an easy way；
however； in the best of places； but it became a really possible trail； along
which he could have made good time if he had not been worn out； if he
had had light with which to pick his steps； and if it had not been for
Bondell's gripsack。 To him； in his exhausted condition； it was the last
straw。 Having barely strength to carry himself along； the additional
weight of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly every time he tripped
or stumbled。 And when he escaped tripping； branches reached out in the
darkness； hooked the grip between his shoulders； and held him back。
His mind was made up that if he missed the Athenian it would be the
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fault of the gripsack。 In fact； only two things remained in his
consciousnessBondell's grip and the steamer。 He knew only those two
things； and they became identified； in a way； with some stern mission
upon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries。 He walked and
struggled on as in a dream。 As part of the dream was his arrival at Sheep
Camp。 He stumbled into a saloon； slid his shoulders out of the straps；
and started to deposit the grip at his feet。 But it slipped from his fingers
and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticed by two men
who were just leaving。 Churchill drank a glass of whisky； told the
barkeeper to call him in ten minutes； and sat down； his feet on the grip； his
head on his knees。
So badly did his misused body stiffen； that when he was called it
required another ten minutes and a second glass of whisky to unbend his
joints and limber up the muscles。
〃Hey not that way！〃 the barkeeper shouted； and then went after him
and started him through the darkness toward Canyon City。 Some little
husk of inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right； and；
still as in a dream； he took the canon trail。 He did not know what warned
him； but after what seemed several centuries of travelling； he sensed
danger and drew his revolver。 Still in the dream； he saw two men step
out and heard them halt him。 His revolver went off four times； and he
saw the flashes and heard the explosions of their revolvers。 Also； he was
aware that he had been hit in the thigh。 He saw one man go down； and；
as the other came for him； he smashed him a straight blow with the heavy
revolver full in the face。 Then he turned and ran。 He came from the
dream shortly afterward； to find himself plunging down the trail at a
limping lope。 His first thought was for the gripsack。 It was still on his
back。 He was convinced that what had happened was a dream till he felt
for his revolver and found it gone。 Next he became aware of a sharp
stinging of his thigh； and after investigating； he found his hand warm with
blood。 It was a superficial wound； but it was incontestable。 He became
wider awake； and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City。
He found a man； with a team of horses and a wagon； who got out of
bed and harnessed up for twenty dollars。 Churchill crawled in on the
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wagon…bed and slept； the gripsack still on his back。 It was a rough ride；
over water…washed boulders down the Dyea Valley； but he roused only
when the wagon hit the highest places。 Any altitude of his body above
the wagon…bed of less than a foot did not faze him。 The last mile was
smooth going； and he slept soundly。
He came to in the grey dawn； the driver shaking him savagely and
howling into his ear that the Athenian was gone。 Churchill looked
blankly at the deserted harbour。
〃There's a smoke over at Skaguay；〃 the man said。
Churchill's eyes were too swollen to see that far； but he said： 〃It's she。
Get me a boat。〃
The driver was obliging and found a skiff； and a man to row it for ten
dollars； payment in advance。 Churchill paid； and was helped into the
skiff。 It was beyond him to get in by himself。 It was six miles to
Skaguay； and he had a blissful thought of sleeping those six miles。 But
the man did not know how to row； and Churchill took the oars and toiled
for a few more centuries。 He never knew six longer and more
excruciating miles。 A snappy little breeze blew up the inlet and held him
back。 He h
