"London, Jack - The Son of the Wolf and Other Tales of the North" - читать интересную книгу автора (London Jack)

may well crawl into his sleeping bag with a clear conscience and a
pride which passeth all understanding; and he who travels twenty
sleeps on the Long Trail is a man whom the gods may envy.
The afternoon wore on, and with the awe, born of the White
Silence, the voiceless travelers bent to their work. Nature has many
tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finity- the ceaseless flow
of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of the earthquake,
the long roll of heaven's artillery- but the most tremendous, the most
stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the White Silence. All
movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the
slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted
at the sound of his own voice. Sole speck of life journeying across
the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity,
realizes that his is a maggot's life, nothing more. Strange thoughts
arise unsummoned, and the mystery of all things strives for utterance.
And the fear of death, of God, of the universe, comes over him- the
hope of the Resurrection and the Life, the yearning for immortality,
the vain striving of the imprisoned essence- it is then, if ever,
man walks alone with God.
So wore the day away. The river took a great bend, and Mason
headed his team for the cutoff across the narrow neck of land. But the
dogs balked at the high bank. Again and again, though Ruth and
Malemute Kid were shoving on the sled, they slipped back. Then came
the concerted effort. The miserable creatures, weak from hunger,
exerted their last strength. Up- up- the sled poised on the top of the
bank; but the leader swung the string of dogs behind him to the right,
fouling Mason's snowshoes. The result was grievous. Mason was
whipped off his feet; one of the dogs fell in the traces; and the sled
toppled back, dragging everything to the bottom again.
Slash! the whip fell among the dogs savagely, especially upon the
one which had fallen.
'Don't,- Mason,' entreated Malemute Kid; 'the poor devil's on its
last legs. Wait and we'll put my team on.'
Mason deliberately withheld the whip till the last word had
fallen, then out flashed the long lash, completely curling about the
offending creature's body. Carmen- for it was Carmen- cowered in the
snow, cried piteously, then rolled over on her side.
It was a tragic moment, a pitiful incident of the trail- a dying
dog, two comrades in anger. Ruth glanced solicitously from man to man.
But Malemute Kid restrained himself, though there was a world of
reproach in his eyes, and, bending over the dog, cut the traces. No
word was spoken. The teams were double-spanned and the difficulty
overcome; the sleds were under way again, the dying dog dragging
herself along in the rear. As long as an animal can travel, it is
not shot, and this last chance is accorded it- the crawling into camp,
if it can, in the hope of a moose being killed.
Already penitent for his angry action, but too stubborn to make
amends, Mason toiled on at the head of the cavalcade, little
dreaming that danger hovered in the air. The timber clustered thick in
the sheltered bottom, and through this they threaded their way.