A Daughter of the Snows. Jack LondonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the women who come over the trail must be one or the other. There is no middle course, and those who attempt it are bound to fail. So you are a very, very foolish girl, and you had better turn back while there is yet a chance. If you will view it in the light of a loan from a stranger, I will advance your passage back to the States, and start an Indian over the trail with you to-morrow for Dyea."
Once or twice Frona had attempted to interrupt him, but he had waved her imperatively to silence with his hand.
"I thank you," she began; but he broke in—
"Oh, not at all, not at all."
"I thank you," she repeated; but it happens that—a—that you are mistaken. I have just come over the trail from Dyea and expect to meet my outfit already in camp here at Happy Camp. They started hours ahead of me, and I can't understand how I passed them—yes I do, too! A boat was blown over to the west shore of Crater Lake this afternoon, and they must have been in it. That is where I missed them and came on. As for my turning back, I appreciate your motive for suggesting it, but my father is in Dawson, and I have not seen him for three years. Also, I have come through from Dyea this day, and am tired, and I would like to get some rest. So, if you still extend your hospitality, I'll go to bed."
"Impossible!" He kicked the blankets to one side, sat down on the flour sacks, and directed a blank look upon her.
"Are—are there any women in the other tents?" she asked, hesitatingly.
"I did not see any, but I may have overlooked."
"A man and his wife were, but they pulled stakes this morning. No; there are no other women except—except two or three in a tent, which—er—which will not do for you."
"Do you think I am afraid of their hospitality?" she demanded, hotly.
"As you said, they are women."
"But I said it would not do," he answered, absently, staring at the straining canvas and listening to the roar of the storm. "A man would die in the open on a night like this.
"And the other tents are crowded to the walls," he mused. "I happen to know. They have stored all their caches inside because of the water, and they haven't room to turn around. Besides, a dozen other strangers are storm-bound with them. Two or three asked to spread their beds in here to-night if they couldn't pinch room elsewhere. Evidently they have; but that does not argue that there is any surplus space left. And anyway—"
He broke off helplessly. The inevitableness of the situation was growing.
"Can I make Deep Lake to-night?" Frona asked, forgetting herself to sympathize with him, then becoming conscious of what she was doing and bursting into laughter.
"But you couldn't ford the river in the dark." He frowned at her levity. "And there are no camps between."
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