that same morning gary finished his third candle and tried his best to make one swallow of water, held long in his parched mouth, suffice for two hours.
he could no longer lift the single-jack to the height of his shoulder, much less strike a blow upon the rock. he leaned against the bowlder and struck a few feeble blows with the head of the longer of the two drills; but the steel bounced back futilely, and the exertion tired him so that he was forced to desist after a few minutes of heart-breaking effort.
he sat down with his back against the wall where the sunlight could find him and give a little cheer to his prison, and fingered his fourth candle longingly. he licked his cracked lips and lifted the canteen, his emaciated fingers fumbling the screw-top thirstily. he tried to reason sensibly with himself that only a cowardly reluctance to meet death—which was the inevitable goal of life—held him fighting there in that narrow dungeon, scheming to add a few more tortured hours to his life.
he told himself angrily that he was merely holding up the action of the story, and that the scene should be cut right there. in other words, there was absolutely no hope of his ever getting out of there, alive or dead. steve carson, he mumbled, had been lucky. he had at least taken his exit quickly.
“but i ain’t licked yet,” he croaked, with a cracked laugh. “there’s a lot of fight in me yet. never had any use for a quitter. steve carson wouldn’t have quit—only he got beaned with the first rock and couldn’t fight. i’m not hurt—yet. trained down pretty fine, is all. when i’m a ghost, maybe i’ll come back and tell fat ladies with ouija boards in their laps how to reduce. great scheme. i’ll do that little thing. but i ain’t whipped yet—not until i’ve tried out my jackknife on that damned rock. have a drink, old son. and then get to work! what the hell are you loafing for?”
he lifted the lightened canteen, his arms shaking with weakness, and took another drink of water. then, carefully screwing on the top of the canteen, he set it down gently against the wall and reached wearily into his pocket. the blade of his knife had never been so hard to open; but he accomplished it and pulled himself laboriously to his feet. steadying himself with one hand against the malapi bowlder that shut him in, he went to the opening—widened now so that he could thrust forth his arm to the shoulder—and began carefully chipping at a seam in the rock with the largest blade of his jackknife.
he really did not expect to free himself by that means; nor by any other. since he began to weaken he had come to accept his fate with such calmness as his pride in playing the game could muster. but he could not sit idle and wait for death to creep upon him. nor could he hurry it, which he held to be a coward’s trick. he still believed that the “big director” should be obeyed. it was too late now to ask for another part in the picture. he had been cast for this rôle and he would play it to the final scene.
so he stood hacking and prying with his knife blade, stopping now and then to stare out into the hot sunshine. he could even see a wisp of cloud drift across the bit of blue sky revealed to him through the narrow rock window of his prison. the sight made him grit his teeth. he was so close to that free, sun-drenched world, and he was yet so utterly helpless!
he was standing so, resting from his unavailing task, when the spotted cat hopped upon the bowlder where every day she sat to be stroked by gary’s hand. gary’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips avidly. faith was carrying a wild dove that she had caught and brought to the bowlder where she might feast in pleasant company.
“thanks, old girl,” he said grimly; and stretching out his arm, snatched the bird greedily from faith’s mouth. “some service! now beat it and go catch a rabbit; a big one. catch two rabbits!”
he slid down to a sitting position and began plucking the limp body of the dove, his fingers trembling with eagerness. the “third hunger” was upon him—that torment of craving which men who have been entombed in mines speak of with lowered voices—if they live to tell about it. gary longed to tear the bird with his teeth, just as it was.
but he would not yield an inch from his idea of the proper way to play the game. he therefore plucked the dove almost clean of feathers, and lighting his one precious remaining candle, he turned the small, plump body over the candle flame, singeing it before he held the flame to its breast.
the instant that portion was seared and partially broiled, gary set his handsome white teeth into it and chewed the morsel slowly while he broiled another bite. his impulse—rather, the agonized craving of his whole famished body—was to tear the body asunder with his teeth and devour it like an animal. but he steeled himself to self-control; just as he had held himself sternly in hand down in the cabin when loneliness and that weird, felt presence plucked at his courage.
he would have grudged the melting of even the half-inch of tallow it required to broil the bird so that he could eat it and retain his self-respect; but the succulent flesh was too delicious. he could not think of anything but the ecstasy of eating.
he crunched the bones in his teeth, pulping them slowly, extracting the last particle of flavor and nourishment. when he had finished there remained but the head and the feet—and he flung them through the opening lest he should be tempted to devour them also. after that he indulged himself in a sip of water, stretched himself full length upon the rock floor, and descended blissfully into the oblivion of deep slumber.
