Love of Life
杰克·伦敦 / Jack London
The man had fallen into the creek and had sprained his ankle.
He called to his friend， “I say， Bill， wait there. I’ve sprained my ankle.”
There was no answer. Bill had disappeared in the damp fog. Although it was still August， the Canadian wilderness lay cold and lonely in the weak light of the afternoon sun. Everywhere was the dull skyline. The hills were all low-lying. There were no trees. There was nothing but desolation that sent fear into the man’s heart.
“Bill！” he called again， “Bill！” There was no answer.
The man rose to his feet， shaking as if he had a fever. He fought against the fear in his heart. He found his gun where he had dropped it in the water. Then he continued his way slowly. The gun was now useless， for he had no ammunition for it， but he did not leave it.
He shifted his pack to his left shoulder so as to favor his right ankle and hurried to the top of a hill. From there he saw a broad valley， empty of life.
The bottom of the valley was soft and swampy. He pushed on， trying to follow the tracks of his companion.
Though he was now alone， he was not lost. Farther along he knew where to find the trail. He would follow it until it came to the river， where they had left their canoe， weighted down with rocks. Under the canoe was a cache of ammunition for his empty gun， fishhooks and lines， and a small net. He would also find some flour， bacon， and beans—not much， for they had taken most of their food with them on their trip into the north country looking for gold.
He knew Bill would wait for him there； then they would paddle down the river to a Hudson Bay Company post， where there would be warm shelter and plenty of food.
These were the thoughts of the man as he limped along the trail. Then he began to think that perhaps Bill had deserted him. The man had not eaten for two days， and now was the added fear of starvation. He had stopped a few times to eat some wild berries， but they were mostly seeds and bitter. His hunger increased by the hour.
Already the sun had slipped beyond the horizon. Suddenly he struck his toe on a rocky ledge and fell. He lay still for some time without movement. Then he slipped out of his pack straps and dragged himself to a sitting position. It was not yet dark， and in the lingering twilight he gathered some moss. When he had a good-sized pile， he built a fire and set a small pail of water over the fire to boil.
He unwrapped his pack， and the first thing he did was to count his matches. There were sixty-seven. He counted them three times to make sure. He divided them into three small packs， wrapping them in oil paper， putting one bunch in his empty tobacco pouch， another bunch in the inside band of his hat， and the third bunch under his shirt on his chest. He was afraid that if he fell into the water again， all of his matches would become wet and useless.
He dried his footgear by the fire. The wet moccasins had been cut to pieces. The socks were worn through in places， and his ankle had swollen to the size of his knee. He tore a long strip from one of his blankets and bound the ankle tightly. He tore other strips and bound them about his feet for footwear. He was cold， and he knew that there would soon be the danger of snow and frost. After the water heated， he drank some of it； then he wound his watch， and crawled between his blankets. He slept like a dead man.
At six o’clock he awoke， lying on his back. He gazed straight up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. As he rolled over on his elbow， he heard a loud snort and saw a caribou looking at him strangely. The animal was not more than fifty feet away， and instantly the man had thoughts of a caribou steak frying over a fire. He reached for his empty gun， aimed， and pulled the trigger. The animal snorted at the click of the empty gun and ran away.
The man cursed and groaned aloud as he dragged himself to his feet. Slowly he rolled his pack together. He looked at the moose-hide bag that he carried in his pack. It was extra weight， and he began to wonder what value its contents had now. However， he rolled it together with his pace and started out.
The pain in his ankle was terrific， but it was no worse than that in his empty stomach. The hunger had become frightful. In a little while he came upon a valley where some birds rose on whirring wings，“Ker...ker...ker，” they cried as they flew away. He threw stones but he could not hit a one. He placed his pack on the ground and began to stalk the birds like a cat.
The sharp rocks cut through his pants legs till his knees were scratched and bleeding， but he was not aware of his hurts as his hunger was so great. He cursed the birds and mocked them with their own cry.