The Tales of the Wild North (39 Novels & Stories in One Volume). James Oliver Curwood
partly toward him. There was no change in his attitude. His head hung weakly upon his chest, as if he had fainted.
What did it mean?
Suddenly every nerve in Nathaniel's body leaped into excited action.
The guards were entering their boat! The last man was shoving it off—they were rowing away! His throbbing muscles seemed ready to burst their bonds. The boat became indistinct in the starry gloom—a mere shadow—and faded in the distance. The sound of oars became fainter and fainter. Then, after a little, there was wafted back to him from far out in the lake a man's voice—the wild snatch of a song. The Mormons were gone! They were not to be shot! They were not—
A voice spoke to him, startling him so that he would have cried out if it had not been for the cloth that gagged him. It was Neil, speaking coolly, laughingly.
"How are you, Nat?"
Nathaniel's staring eyes revealed his astonishment. He could see Neil laughing at him as though it was an unusually humorous joke in which they were playing a part.
"Lord, but this is a funny mess!" he chuckled. "Here am I, able and willing to talk—and there you are, as dumb as a mummy, and looking for all the world as if you'd seen a ghost! What's the matter? Aren't you glad we're not going to be shot?"
Nathaniel nodded.
The other's voice became suddenly sober.
"This is worse than the other, Nat. It's what we call the 'Straight Death.' Unless something turns up between now and to-morrow morning, or a little later, we'll be as dead as though they had filled us with bullets. Our only hope rests in the fact that I can use my lungs. That's why I didn't let them know when my gag became loose. I had the devil's own time keeping it from falling with my chin; pretty near broke my neck doing it. A little later, when we're sure Jeekum and his men are out of hearing, I'll begin calling for help. Perhaps some fisherman or hunter—"
He stopped, and a chill ran up Nathaniel's back as he listened to a weird howl that came from far behind them. It was a blood-curdling sound and his face turned a more ghastly pallor as he gazed inquiringly at Neil. His companion saw the terrible question in his face.
"Wolves," he said. "They're away back in the forest. They won't come down to us." For a moment he was silent, his eyes turned to the sea. Then he added, "Do you notice anything queer about the way you're bound to that stake, Nat?"
There was a thrilling emphasis in Nathaniel's answer. He nodded his head affirmatively, again and again.
"Your hands are tied to the post very loosely, with a slack of say six inches," continued Neil with an appalling precision. "There is a rawhide thong about your neck, wet, and so tight that it chafes your skin when you move your head. But the very uncomfortable thing just at this moment is the way your feet are fastened. Isn't that so? Your legs are drawn back, so that you are half resting on your toes, and I'm pretty sure your knees are aching right now. Eh? Well, it won't be very long before your legs will give way under you and the slack about your wrists will keep you from helping yourself. Do you know what will happen then?"
He paused and Nathaniel stared at him, partly understanding, yet giving no sign.
"You will hang upon the thong about your neck until you choke to death," finished Neil. "That's the 'Straight Death.' If the end doesn't come by morning the sun will finish the job. It will dry out the wet rawhide until it grips your throat like a hand. Poetically we call it the hand of Strang. Pleasant, isn't it?"
The grim definiteness with which he described the manner of their end added to those sensations which had already become acutely discomforting to Nathaniel. Had he possessed the use of his voice when the Mormons were leaving he would have called upon them to return and lengthen the thongs about his ankles by an inch or two. Now, with almost brutal frankness, Neil had explained to him the meaning of his strange posture. His knees began to ache. An occasional sharp pain shot up from them to his hips, and the thong about his neck, which at first he had used as a support for his chin, began to irritate him. At times he found himself resting upon it so heavily that it shortened his breath, and he was compelled to straighten himself, putting his whole weight on his twisted feet. It seemed an hour before Neil broke the terrible silence again. Perhaps it was ten minutes.
"I'm going to begin," he said. "Listen. If you hear an answer nod your head."
He drew a deep breath, turned his face as far as he could toward the shore, and shouted.
"Help—help—help!"
Again and again the thrilling words burst from his throat, and as their echoes floated back to them from the forest, like a thousand mocking voices, Nathaniel grew hot with the sweat of horror. If he could only have added his own voice to those cries, shrieked out the words with Neil—joined even unavailingly in this last fight for life, it would not have been so bad. But he was helpless. He watched the desperation grow in his companion's face as there came no response save the taunting echoes; even in the light of the stars he saw that face darken with its effort, the eyes fill with a mad light, and the throat strain against its choking thong. Gradually Neil's voice became weaker. When he stopped to rest and listen his panting breath came to Nathaniel like the hissing of steam. Soon the echoes failed to come back from the forest, and Nathaniel fought like a crazed man to free himself, jerking at the thongs that held him until his wrists were bleeding and the rawhide about his neck choked him.
"No use!" he heard Neil say. "Better take it easy for a while, Nat!"
Marion's brother had turned toward him, his head thrown back against the stake, his face lifted to the sky. Nathaniel raised his own head, and found that he could breath easier. For a long time his companion did not break the silence. Mentally he began counting off the seconds. It was past midnight—probably one o'clock. Dawn came at half past two, the sun rose an hour later. Three hours to live! Nathaniel lowered his head, and the rawhide tightened perceptibly at the movement. Neil was watching him. His face shone as white as the starlit sand. His mouth was partly open.
"I'm devilish sorry—for you—Nat—" he said.
His words came with painful slowness. There was a grating huskiness in his voice.
"This damned rawhide—is pinching—my Adam's apple—"
He smiled. His white teeth gleamed, his eyes laughed, and with a heart bursting with grief Nathaniel looked away from him. He had seen courage, but never like this, and deep down in his soul he prayed—prayed that death might come to him first, so that he might not have to look upon the agonies of this other, whose end would be ghastly in its fearless resignation. His own suffering had become excruciating. Sharp pains darted like red-hot needles through his limbs, his back tortured him, and his head ached as though a knife had cloven the base of his skull. Still—he could breathe. By pressing his head against the post it was not difficult for him to fill his lungs with air. But the strength of his limbs was leaving him. He no longer felt any sensation in his cramped feet. His knees were numb. He measured the paralysis of death creeping up his legs inch by inch, driving the sharp pains before it, until suddenly his weight tottered under him and he hung heavily upon the thong about his throat. For a full half minute he ceased to breathe, and a feeling of ineffable relief swept over him, for during those few seconds his body was at rest. He found that by a backward contortion he could bring himself erect again, and that for a few minutes after each respite it was not so difficult for him to stand.
After a third effort he turned again toward Neil. A groan of horror rose to his imprisoned lips. His companion's face was full upon him, ghastly white; his eyes were wide and staring, like balls of shimmering glass in the starlight, and his throat was straining at the fatal rawhide! Nathaniel heard no sound, saw no stir of life in the inanimate figure.
A moaning, wordless cry broke through the cloth that gagged him.
At the sound of that cry, faint, terrifying, with all the horror that might fill a human soul in its inarticulate note, a shudder of life passed into Neil's body. Weakly he flung himself back, stood poised for an instant against the stake, then fell again upon the deadly thong. Twice—three times he made the effort, and failed. And to Nathaniel, staring wild