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"Well, he has it has it bad but I'll cure him. Yes, and I'll save this whole camp, whether they want it or not." Captain spoke strongly, his jaws set with determination. Klusky regarded him narrowly through close shrunk eyes, while speculation wrinkled his low forehead. "Of course! Yes! But how shall it be, eh? Tell me that." His eagerness was pronounced. "I'll go to St.
Not that Klusky did not pull, he evidently did his best, but he never spoke, while the other grew ever conscious of the beady, glittering eyes boring into his back. At camp, the Jew watched him furtively, sullenly, till he grew to feel oppressed, as with a sense of treachery, or some fell design hidden far back. Every morning he secured the ropes next the sled, thus forcing Captain to walk ahead.
It'll come, see if it don't." He was right. Yet when the plague did grip the camp and men died, one in five, they failed to rise to it. Instead of fighting manfully they lapsed into a frightened, stubborn coma. There was one, and only one, who did not. Klusky the Jew; Klusky the pariah. They said he worked just to be ornery and different from the rest, he hated them so.
Leaning as he did against the sled ropes he became aware of an added burden, as though the man behind had eased to shift his harness. When it did not cease he glanced over his shoulder. Keyed up as he was this nervous agility saved him. Klusky held a revolver close up to his back, and, though he had unconsciously failed to pull, he mechanically stepped in the other's tracks.
The government was aimin' to start a post there last fall, wasn't it? Say! Mebbe you can make it after all, Kid." His features brightened hopefully. "What d' ye say, Klusky?" The one addressed answered nervously, almost with excitement. "It can't be done! It ain't possible, and I ain't strong enough to pull the sled. V'y don't you and George go together. I'll stay "
He snatched him from his seat and hurled him at the door, where he fell in a heap. Klusky arose, and, although his eyes snapped wildly and he trembled, he spoke insidiously, with oily modulation. "Vait a meenute, Meestaire Captain, vait a meenute. I didn't say I vouldn't go. Oi! Oi! Vat a man! Shoor I'll go. Coitenly! You have been good to me and they have been devils. I hope they die."
They grappled and fell, rolling in a tangle of rope, Klusky fighting with rat-like fury, whining odd, broken curses. The larger man crushed him in silence, beating him into the snow, bent on killing him with his hands. As the other's struggles diminished, he came to himself, however, and desisted. "I can't kill him," he thought in panic. "I can't go on alone." "Get up!"
"Vat's the mattaire?" came a leering voice and, turning they beheld Klusky, the renegade. He had entered silently, as usual, and now darted shrewd inquiring glances at them. "George has the scurvy." "Oi! Oi! Oi! Vat a peety." He seemed about to say more but refrained, coming forward rubbing his hands nervously. "It ain't possible that a 'sour dough' shall have the scoivy."
"Good old George!" As they passed from the settlement an Indian came to the door of the last hovel. "Hello. There's a Siwash in your cabin," said Captain. "What is he doing there ?" "That's all right," rejoined Klusky. "I told him to stay and vatch t'ings." "Rather strange," thought the other. "I wonder what there is to watch. There's never been any stealing around here."
Shivering there beneath the thin tent, Captain heard a story, rambling at first, filled with hatred and bitterness toward the men who had scoffed at him, yet at the last he listened eagerly, amazedly, and upon its conclusion rose suddenly, gazing at the dying man in horror. "My God, Klusky! Hell isn't black enough for you. It can't be true, it can't be. You're raving!
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