The Unexpected Page #4

"The Unexpected" is a short story by Jack London that explores themes of survival, human resilience, and the unpredictability of nature. Set against the backdrop of the wilderness, the narrative follows a group of men facing unforeseen challenges that test their limits and camaraderie. Through vivid descriptions and intense situations, London delves into the complexities of human instinct and the unexpected twists of fate that can change lives in an instant. The story reflects London's characteristic rugged individualism and profound understanding of the human spirit in the face of adversity.

								

Harkey."

Long she argued it with him, but the argument was one-sided, for he
contented himself with repeating again and again, "He killed Dutchy
and Harkey." But she could not escape from her childhood training nor
from the blood that was in her. The heritage of law was hers, and right
conduct, to her, was the fulfilment of the law. She could see no other
righteous course to pursue. Hans's taking the law in his own hands
was no more justifiable than Dennin's deed. Two wrongs did not make a
right, she contended, and there was only one way to punish Dennin, and
that was the legal way arranged by society. At last Hans gave in to her.

"All right," he said. "Have it your own way. And to-morrow or next day
look to see him kill you and me."

She shook her head and held out her hand for the shot-gun. He started
to hand it to her, then hesitated.

"Better let me shoot him," he pleaded.

Again she shook her head, and again he started to pass her the gun,
when the door opened, and an Indian, without knocking, came in. A blast
of wind and flurry of snow came in with him. They turned and faced
him, Hans still holding the shot-gun. The intruder took in the scene
without a quiver. His eyes embraced the dead and wounded in a sweeping
glance. No surprise showed in his face, not even curiosity. Harkey lay
at his feet, but he took no notice of him. So far as he was concerned,
Harkey's body did not exist.

"Much wind," the Indian remarked by way of salutation. "All well? Very
well?"

Hans, still grasping the gun, felt sure that the Indian attributed to
him the mangled corpses. He glanced appealingly at his wife.

"Good morning, Negook," she said, her voice betraying her effort. "No,
not very well. Much trouble."

"Good-by, I go now, much hurry," the Indian said, and without semblance
of haste, with great deliberation stepping clear of a red pool on the
floor, he opened the door and went out.

The man and woman looked at each other.

"He thinks we did it," Hans gasped, "that I did it."

Edith was silent for a space. Then she said, briefly, in a businesslike
way:

"Never mind what he thinks. That will come after. At present we have
two graves to dig. But first of all, we've got to tie up Dennin so he
can't escape."

Hans refused to touch Dennin, but Edith lashed him securely, hand and
foot. Then she and Hans went out into the snow. The ground was frozen.
It was impervious to a blow of the pick. They first gathered wood, then
scraped the snow away and on the frozen surface built a fire. When the
fire had burned for an hour, several inches of dirt had thawed. This
they shovelled out, and then built a fresh fire. Their descent into the
earth progressed at the rate of two or three inches an hour.

It was hard and bitter work. The flurrying snow did not permit the
fire to burn any too well, while the wind cut through their clothes
and chilled their bodies. They held but little conversation. The wind
interfered with speech. Beyond wondering at what could have been
Dennin's motive, they remained silent, oppressed by the horror of the
tragedy. At one o'clock, looking toward the cabin, Hans announced that
he was hungry.

"No, not now, Hans," Edith answered. "I couldn't go back alone into
that cabin the way it is, and cook a meal."

At two o'clock Hans volunteered to go with her; but she held him
to his work, and four o'clock found the two graves completed. They
were shallow, not more than two feet deep, but they would serve the
purpose. Night had fallen. Hans got the sled, and the two dead men
were dragged through the darkness and storm to their frozen sepulchre.
The funeral procession was anything but a pageant. The sled sank deep
into the drifted snow and pulled hard. The man and the woman had
eaten nothing since the previous day, and were weak from hunger and
exhaustion. They had not the strength to resist the wind, and at times
its buffets hurled them off their feet. On several occasions the sled
was overturned, and they were compelled to reload it with its sombre
freight. The last hundred feet to the graves was up a steep slope,
and this they took on all fours, like sled-dogs, making legs of their
arms and thrusting their hands into the snow. Even so, they were twice
dragged backward by the weight of the sled, and slid and fell down the
hill, the living and the dead, the haul-ropes and the sled, in ghastly
entanglement.

"To-morrow I will put up head-boards with their names," Hans said, when
the graves were filled in.

Edith was sobbing. A few broken sentences had been all she was capable
of in the way of a funeral service, and now her husband was compelled
to half-carry her back to the cabin.

Dennin was conscious. He had rolled over and over on the floor in vain
efforts to free himself. He watched Hans and Edith with glittering
eyes, but made no attempt to speak. Hans still refused to touch the
murderer, and sullenly watched Edith drag him across the floor to the
men's bunk-room. But try as she would, she could not lift him from the
floor into his bunk.

"Better let me shoot him, and we'll have no more trouble," Hans said in
final appeal.

Edith shook her head and bent again to her task. To her surprise the
body rose easily, and she knew Hans had relented and was helping her.
Then came the cleansing of the kitchen. But the floor still shrieked
the tragedy, until Hans planed the surface of the stained wood away and
with the shavings made a fire in the stove.

The days came and went. There was much of darkness and silence, broken
only by the storms and the thunder on the beach of the freezing
surf. Hans was obedient to Edith's slightest order. All his splendid
initiative had vanished. She had elected to deal with Dennin in her
way, and so he left the whole matter in her hands.

The murderer was a constant menace. At all times there was the chance
that he might free himself from his bonds, and they were compelled to
guard him day and night. The man or the woman sat always beside him,
holding the loaded shot-gun. At first, Edith tried eight-hour watches,
but the continuous strain was too great, and afterwards she and Hans
relieved each other every four hours. As they had to sleep, and as
the watches extended through the night, their whole waking time was
expended in guarding Dennin. They had barely time left over for the
preparation of meals and the getting of firewood.

Since Negook's inopportune visit, the Indians had avoided the cabin.
Edith sent Hans to their cabins to get them to take Dennin down the
coast in a canoe to the nearest white settlement or trading post, but
the errand was fruitless. Then Edith went herself and interviewed
Negook. He was head man of the little village, keenly aware of his
responsibility, and he elucidated his policy thoroughly in few words.

"It is white man's trouble," he said, "not Siwash trouble. My people
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