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

Fifty feet or more from the trail towered a lofty pine. For
generations it had stood there, and for generations destiny had had
this one end in view- perhaps the same had been decreed of Mason.
He stooped to fasten the loosened thong of his moccasin. The sleds
came to a halt, and the dogs lay down in the snow without a whimper.
The stillness was weird; not a breath rustled the frost-encrusted
forest; the cold and silence of outer space had chilled the heart
and smote the trembling lips of nature. A sigh pulsed through the air-
they did not seem to actually hear it, but rather felt it, like the
premonition of movement in a motionless void. Then the great tree,
burdened with its weight of years and snow, played its last part in
the tragedy of life. He heard the warning crash and attempted to
spring up but, almost erect, caught the blow squarely on the shoulder.
The sudden danger, the quick death- how often had Malemute Kid faced
it! The pine needles were still quivering as he gave his commands
and sprang into action. Nor did the Indian girl faint or raise her
voice in idle wailing, as might many of her white sisters. At his
order, she threw her weight on the end of a quickly extemporized
handspike, easing the pressure and listening to her husband's
groans, while Malemute Kid attacked the tree with his ax. The steel
rang merrily as it bit into the frozen trunk, each stroke being
accompanied by a forced, audible respiration, the 'Huh!' 'Huh!' of the
woodsman.
At last the Kid laid the pitiable thing that was once a man in the
snow. But worse than his comrade's pain was the dumb anguish in the
woman's face, the blended look of hopeful, hopeless query. Little
was said; those of the Northland are early taught the futility of
words and the inestimable value of deeds. With the temperature at
sixty-five below zero, a man cannot lie many minutes in the snow and
live. So the sled lashings were cut, and the sufferer, rolled in furs,
laid on a couch of boughs. Before him roared a fire, built of the very
wood which wrought the mishap. Behind and partially over him was
stretched the primitive fly- a piece of canvas, which caught the
radiating heat and threw it back and down upon him- a trick which
men may know who study physics at the fount.
And men who have shared their bed with death know when the call is
sounded. Mason was terribly crushed. The most cursory examination
revealed it. His right arm, leg, and back were broken; his limbs
were paralyzed from the hips; and the likelihood of internal
injuries was large. An occasional moan was his only sign of life.
No hope; nothing to be done. The pitiless night crept slowly by-
Ruth's portion, the despairing stoicism of her race, and Malemute
Kid adding new lines to his face of bronze. In fact, Mason suffered
least of all, for he spent his time in eastern Tennessee, in the Great
Smoky Mountains, living over the scenes of his childhood. And most
pathetic was the melody of his long-forgotten Southern vernacular,
as he raved of swimming holes and coon hunts and watermelon raids.
It was as Greek to Ruth, but the Kid understood and felt- felt as only
one can feel who has been shut out for years from all that
civilization means.