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- Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
- Kategoria: Powieści przygodowe i historyczne
- Język: angielski
A former American football star, Boyd Emerson has failed in several businesses. He did all this in order to get the hand of his rich lover, but failure seems to haunt him at every turn. Now he is trying his hand at salmon fishing in Alaska.
Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi na:
Liczba stron: 519
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Contents
Chapter 1. Wherein A Spiritless Man And A Rogue Appear
Chapter 2. In Which They Break Bread With A Lonely Woman
Chapter 3. In Which Cherry Malotte Displays A Temper
Chapter 4. In Which She Gives Heart To A Hopeless Man
Chapter 5. In Which A Compact Is Formed
Chapter 6. Wherein Boreas Takes A Hand
Chapter 7. And Neptune Takes Another
Chapter 8. Wherein Boyd Admits His Failure
Chapter 9. And Is Granted A Year Of Grace
Chapter 10. In Which Big George Meets His Enemy
Chapter 11. Wherein Boyd Emerson Is Twice Amazed
Chapter 12. In Which Miss Wayland Is Of Two Minds
Chapter 13. In Which Cherry Malotte Becomes Suspicious
Chapter 14. In Which They Recognize The Enemy
Chapter 15. The Doors Of The Vault Swing Shut
Chapter 16. Willis Marsh Comes Out From Cover
Chapter 17. A New Enemy Appears
Chapter 18. Willis Marsh Springs A Trap
Chapter 19. In Which A Mutiny Is Threatened
Chapter 20. Wherein “Fingerless” Fraser Returns
Chapter 21. A Hand In The Dark
Chapter 22. The Silver Horde
Chapter 23. In Which More Plans Are Laid
Chapter 24. Wherein “The Grande Dame” Arrives, Laden With Disappointments
Chapter 25. The Chase
Chapter 26. In Which A Score Is Settled
Chapter 27. And A Dream Comes True
Chapter 1. Wherein A Spiritless Man And A Rogue Appear
The trail to Kalvik leads down from the northward mountains over the tundra which flanks the tide flats, then creeps out upon the salt ice of the river and across to the village. It boasts no travel in summer, but by winter an occasional toil-worn traveller may be seen issuing forth from the Great Country beyond, bound for the open water; while once in thirty days the mail-team whirls out of the forest to the south, pauses one night to leave word of the world, and then is swallowed up in the silent hills. Kalvik, to be sure, is not much of a place, being hidden away from the main-travelled routes to the interior and wholly unknown except to those interested in the fisheries.
A Greek church, a Russian school with a cassocked priest presiding, and, about a hundred houses, beside the cannery buildings, make up the village. At first glance these canneries might convey the impression of a considerable city, for there are ten plants, in all, scattered along several miles of the river-bank; but in winter they stand empty and still, their great roofs drummed upon by the fierce Arctic storms, their high stacks pointing skyward like long, frozen fingers black with frost. There are the natives, of course, but they do not count, concealed as they are in burrows. No one knows their number, not even the priest who gathers toll from them.
Early one December afternoon there entered upon this trail from the timberless hills far away to the northward a weary team of six dogs, driven by two men. It had been snowing since dawn, and the dim sled-tracks were hidden beneath a six-inch fluff which rendered progress difficult and called the whip into cruel service. A gray smother sifted down sluggishly, shutting out hill and horizon, blending sky and landscape into a blurred monotone, playing strange pranks with the eye that grew tired trying to pierce it.
The travellers had been plodding sullenly, hour after hour, dispirited by the weight of the storm, which bore them down like some impalpable, resistless burden. There was no reality in earth, air, or sky. Their vision was rested by no spot of color save themselves, apparently swimming through an endless, formless atmosphere of gray.
“Fingerless” Fraser broke trail, but to Boyd Emerson, who drove, he seemed to be a sort of dancing doll, bobbing and swaying grotesquely, as if suspended by invisible wires. At times, it seemed to the driver’s whimsical fancy as if each of them trod a measure in the centre of a colorless universe, something after the fashion of goldfish floating in a globe.
Fraser pulled up without warning and instantly the dogs stopped, straightway beginning to soothe their trail-worn pads and to strip the ice-pellets from between their toes. But the “wheelers” were too tired to make the effort, so Emerson went forward and performed the task for them, while Fraser floundered back and sank to a sitting posture on the sled.
“Whew!” he exclaimed, “this is sure tough. If I don’t see a tree or something with enough color to bust this monotony I’ll go dotty.”
“Another day like this and we’d both be snow-blind,” observed Emerson grimly, as he bent to his task. “But it can’t be far to the river now.”
“This fall has covered the trail till I have to feel it out with my feet,” grumbled Fraser. “When I step off to one side I go in up to my hips. It’s like walking a plank a foot deep in feathers, and I feel like I was a mile above the earth in a heavy fog.” After a moment he continued: “Speaking of feathers, how’d you like to have a fried chicken a laMaryland?”
“Shut up!” said the man at the dogs, crossly.
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