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diff --git a/5737-h/5737-h.htm b/5737-h/5737-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..eaa0f6a --- /dev/null +++ b/5737-h/5737-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14145 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Smoke Bellew, by Jack London + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Smoke Bellew, by Jack London + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Smoke Bellew + +Author: Jack London + +Release Date: June 4, 2009 [EBook #5737] +Last Updated: March 3, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMOKE BELLEW *** + + + + +Produced by Les Bowler, Paul J. Hollander, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + SMOKE BELLEW + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Jack London + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE TASTE OF THE MEAT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE MEAT + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE STAMPEDE TO SQUAW CREEK + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. </a> + </td> + <td> + SHORTY DREAMS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE MAN ON THE OTHER BANK + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE RACE FOR NUMBER THREE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE LITTLE MAN + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE HANGING OF CULTUS GEORGE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE MISTAKE OF CREATION + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. </a> + </td> + <td> + A FLUTTER IN EGGS + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE TOWN-SITE OF TRA-LEE + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. </a> + </td> + <td> + WONDER OF WOMAN + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + I. THE TASTE OF THE MEAT + </h2> + <p> + In the beginning he was Christopher Bellew. By the time he was at college + he had become Chris Bellew. Later, in the Bohemian crowd of San Francisco, + he was called Kit Bellew. And in the end he was known by no other name + than Smoke Bellew. And this history of the evolution of his name is the + history of his evolution. Nor would it have happened had he not had a fond + mother and an iron uncle, and had he not received a letter from Gillet + Bellamy. + </p> + <p> + “I have just seen a copy of The Billow,” Gillet wrote from Paris. “Of + course O'Hara will succeed with it. But he's missing some tricks.” Here + followed details in the improvement of the budding society weekly. “Go + down and see him. Let him think they're your own suggestions. Don't let + him know they're from me. If you do, he'll make me Paris correspondent, + which I can't afford, because I'm getting real money for my stuff from the + big magazines. Above all, don't forget to make him fire that dub who's + doing the musical and art criticism. Another thing. San Francisco has + always had a literature of her own. But she hasn't any now. Tell him to + kick around and get some gink to turn out a live serial, and to put into + it the real romance and glamour and colour of San Francisco.” + </p> + <p> + And down to the office of The Billow went Kit Bellew faithfully to + instruct. O'Hara listened. O'Hara debated. O'Hara agreed. O'Hara fired the + dub who wrote criticisms. Further, O'Hara had a way with him—the + very way that was feared by Gillet in distant Paris. When O'Hara wanted + anything, no friend could deny him. He was sweetly and compellingly + irresistible. Before Kit Bellew could escape from the office, he had + become an associate editor, had agreed to write weekly columns of + criticism till some decent pen was found, and had pledged himself to write + a weekly instalment of ten thousand words on the San Francisco serial—and + all this without pay. The Billow wasn't paying yet, O'Hara explained; and + just as convincingly had he exposited that there was only one man in San + Francisco capable of writing the serial and that man Kit Bellew. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord, I'm the gink!” Kit had groaned to himself afterward on the + narrow stairway. + </p> + <p> + And thereat had begun his servitude to O'Hara and the insatiable columns + of The Billow. Week after week he held down an office chair, stood off + creditors, wrangled with printers, and turned out twenty-five thousand + words of all sorts. Nor did his labours lighten. The Billow was ambitious. + It went in for illustration. The processes were expensive. It never had + any money to pay Kit Bellew, and by the same token it was unable to pay + for any additions to the office staff. + </p> + <p> + “This is what comes of being a good fellow,” Kit grumbled one day. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God for good fellows then,” O'Hara cried, with tears in his eyes as + he gripped Kit's hand. “You're all that's saved me, Kit. But for you I'd + have gone bust. Just a little longer, old man, and things will be easier.” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” was Kit's plaint. “I see my fate clearly. I shall be here + always.” + </p> + <p> + A little later he thought he saw his way out. Watching his chance, in + O'Hara's presence, he fell over a chair. A few minutes afterwards he + bumped into the corner of the desk, and, with fumbling fingers, capsized a + paste pot. + </p> + <p> + “Out late?” O'Hara queried. + </p> + <p> + Kit brushed his eyes with his hands and peered about him anxiously before + replying. + </p> + <p> + “No, it's not that. It's my eyes. They seem to be going back on me, that's + all.” + </p> + <p> + For several days he continued to fall over and bump into the office + furniture. But O'Hara's heart was not softened. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what, Kit,” he said one day, “you've got to see an oculist. + There's Doctor Hassdapple. He's a crackerjack. And it won't cost you + anything. We can get it for advertizing. I'll see him myself.” + </p> + <p> + And, true to his word, he dispatched Kit to the oculist. + </p> + <p> + “There's nothing the matter with your eyes,” was the doctor's verdict, + after a lengthy examination. “In fact, your eyes are magnificent—a + pair in a million.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell O'Hara,” Kit pleaded. “And give me a pair of black glasses.” + </p> + <p> + The result of this was that O'Hara sympathized and talked glowingly of the + time when The Billow would be on its feet. + </p> + <p> + Luckily for Kit Bellew, he had his own income. Small it was, compared with + some, yet it was large enough to enable him to belong to several clubs and + maintain a studio in the Latin Quarter. In point of fact, since his + associate-editorship, his expenses had decreased prodigiously. He had no + time to spend money. He never saw the studio any more, nor entertained the + local Bohemians with his famous chafing-dish suppers. Yet he was always + broke, for The Billow, in perennial distress, absorbed his cash as well as + his brains. There were the illustrators, who periodically refused to + illustrate, the printers, who periodically refused to print, and the + office-boy, who frequently refused to officiate. At such times O'Hara + looked at Kit, and Kit did the rest. + </p> + <p> + When the steamship Excelsior arrived from Alaska, bringing the news of the + Klondike strike that set the country mad, Kit made a purely frivolous + proposition. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, O'Hara,” he said. “This gold rush is going to be big—the + days of '49 over again. Suppose I cover it for The Billow? I'll pay my own + expenses.” + </p> + <p> + O'Hara shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Can't spare you from the office, Kit. Then there's that serial. Besides, + I saw Jackson not an hour ago. He's starting for the Klondike to-morrow, + and he's agreed to send a weekly letter and photos. I wouldn't let him get + away till he promised. And the beauty of it is, that it doesn't cost us + anything.” + </p> + <p> + The next Kit heard of the Klondike was when he dropped into the club that + afternoon, and, in an alcove off the library, encountered his uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, avuncular relative,” Kit greeted, sliding into a leather chair and + spreading out his legs. “Won't you join me?” + </p> + <p> + He ordered a cocktail, but the uncle contented himself with the thin + native claret he invariably drank. He glanced with irritated disapproval + at the cocktail, and on to his nephew's face. Kit saw a lecture gathering. + </p> + <p> + “I've only a minute,” he announced hastily. “I've got to run and take in + that Keith exhibition at Ellery's and do half a column on it.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with you?” the other demanded. “You're pale. You're a + wreck.” + </p> + <p> + Kit's only answer was a groan. + </p> + <p> + “I'll have the pleasure of burying you, I can see that.” + </p> + <p> + Kit shook his head sadly. + </p> + <p> + “No destroying worm, thank you. Cremation for mine.” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew came of the old hard and hardy stock that had crossed the + plains by ox-team in the fifties, and in him was this same hardness and + the hardness of a childhood spent in the conquering of a new land. + </p> + <p> + “You're not living right, Christopher. I'm ashamed of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Primrose path, eh?” Kit chuckled. + </p> + <p> + The older man shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Shake not your gory locks at me, avuncular. I wish it were the primrose + path. But that's all cut out. I have no time.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what in—?” + </p> + <p> + “Overwork.” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew laughed harshly and incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “Honest.” + </p> + <p> + Again came the laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Men are the products of their environment,” Kit proclaimed, pointing at + the other's glass. “Your mirth is thin and bitter as your drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Overwork!” was the sneer. “You never earned a cent in your life.” + </p> + <p> + “You bet I have—only I never got it. I'm earning five hundred a week + right now, and doing four men's work.” + </p> + <p> + “Pictures that won't sell? Or—er—fancy work of some sort? Can + you swim?” + </p> + <p> + “I used to.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit a horse?” + </p> + <p> + “I have essayed that adventure.” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew snorted his disgust. “I'm glad your father didn't live to see + you in all the glory of your gracelessness,” he said. “Your father was a + man, every inch of him. Do you get it? A man. I think he'd have whaled all + this musical and artistic tom foolery out of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! these degenerate days,” Kit sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I could understand it, and tolerate it,” the other went on savagely, “if + you succeeded at it. You've never earned a cent in your life, nor done a + tap of man's work.” + </p> + <p> + “Etchings, and pictures, and fans,” Kit contributed unsoothingly. + </p> + <p> + “You're a dabbler and a failure. What pictures have you painted? Dinky + water-colours and nightmare posters. You've never had one exhibited, even + here in San Francisco—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you forget. There is one in the jinks room of this very club.” + </p> + <p> + “A gross cartoon. Music? Your dear fool of a mother spent hundreds on + lessons. You've dabbled and failed. You've never even earned a five-dollar + piece by accompanying some one at a concert. Your songs?—rag-time + rot that's never printed and that's sung only by a pack of fake + Bohemians.” + </p> + <p> + “I had a book published once—those sonnets, you remember,” Kit + interposed meekly. + </p> + <p> + “What did it cost you?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a couple of hundred.” + </p> + <p> + “Any other achievements?” + </p> + <p> + “I had a forest play acted at the summer jinks.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you get for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Glory.” + </p> + <p> + “And you used to swim, and you have essayed to sit a horse!” John Bellew + set his glass down with unnecessary violence. “What earthly good are you + anyway? You were well put up, yet even at university you didn't play + football. You didn't row. You didn't—” + </p> + <p> + “I boxed and fenced—some.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you box last?” + </p> + <p> + “Not since, but I was considered an excellent judge of time and distance, + only I was—er—” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Considered desultory.” + </p> + <p> + “Lazy, you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I always imagined it was an euphemism.” + </p> + <p> + “My father, sir, your grandfather, old Isaac Bellew, killed a man with a + blow of his fist when he was sixty-nine years old.” + </p> + <p> + “The man?” + </p> + <p> + “No, your—you graceless scamp! But you'll never kill a mosquito at + sixty-nine.” + </p> + <p> + “The times have changed, oh, my avuncular! They send men to prison for + homicide now.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father rode one hundred and eighty-five miles, without sleeping, and + killed three horses.” + </p> + <p> + “Had he lived to-day, he'd have snored over the course in a Pullman.” + </p> + <p> + The older man was on the verge of choking with wrath, but swallowed it + down and managed to articulate: + </p> + <p> + “How old are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have reason to believe—” + </p> + <p> + “I know. Twenty-seven. You finished college at twenty-two. You've dabbled + and played and frilled for five years. Before God and man, of what use are + you? When I was your age I had one suit of underclothes. I was riding with + the cattle in Coluso. I was hard as rocks, and I could sleep on a rock. I + lived on jerked beef and bear-meat. I am a better man physically right now + than you are. You weigh about one hundred and sixty-five. I can throw you + right now, or thrash you with my fists.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't take a physical prodigy to mop up cocktails or pink tea,” Kit + murmured deprecatingly. “Don't you see, my avuncular, the times have + changed. Besides, I wasn't brought up right. My dear fool of a mother—” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew started angrily. + </p> + <p> + “—As you described her, was too good to me; kept me in cotton wool + and all the rest. Now, if when I was a youngster I had taken some of those + intensely masculine vacations you go in for—I wonder why you didn't + invite me sometimes? You took Hal and Robbie all over the Sierras and on + that Mexico trip.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess you were too Lord-Fauntleroyish.” + </p> + <p> + “Your fault, avuncular, and my dear—er—mother's. How was I to + know the hard? I was only a chee-ild. What was there left but etchings and + pictures and fans? Was it my fault that I never had to sweat?” + </p> + <p> + The older man looked at his nephew with unconcealed disgust. He had no + patience with levity from the lips of softness. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm going to take another one of those what-you-call masculine + vacations. Suppose I asked you to come along?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather belated, I must say. Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Hal and Robert are going in to Klondike, and I'm going to see them across + the Pass and down to the Lakes, then return—” + </p> + <p> + He got no further, for the young man had sprung forward and gripped his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “My preserver!” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew was immediately suspicious. He had not dreamed the invitation + would be accepted. + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “When do we start?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be a hard trip. You'll be in the way.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't. I'll work. I've learned to work since I went on The Billow.” + </p> + <p> + “Each man has to take a year's supplies in with him. There'll be such a + jam the Indian packers won't be able to handle it. Hal and Robert will + have to pack their outfits across themselves. That's what I'm going along + for—to help them pack. If you come you'll have to do the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Watch me.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't pack,” was the objection. + </p> + <p> + “When do we start?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn't take it to yourself that your lecture on the hard has done + it,” Kit said, at parting. “I just had to get away, somewhere, anywhere, + from O'Hara.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is O'Hara? A Jap?” + </p> + <p> + “No; he's an Irishman, and a slave-driver, and my best friend. He's the + editor and proprietor and all-round big squeeze of The Billow. What he + says goes. He can make ghosts walk.” + </p> + <p> + That night Kit Bellew wrote a note to O'Hara. “It's only a several weeks' + vacation,” he explained. “You'll have to get some gink to dope out + instalments for that serial. Sorry, old man, but my health demands it. + I'll kick in twice as hard when I get back.” + </p> + <p> + Kit Bellew landed through the madness of the Dyea beach, congested with + thousand-pound outfits of thousands of men. This immense mass of luggage + and food, flung ashore in mountains by the steamers, was beginning slowly + to dribble up the Dyea Valley and across Chilkoot. It was a portage of + twenty-eight miles, and could be accomplished only on the backs of men. + Despite the fact that the Indian packers had jumped the freight from eight + cents a pound to forty, they were swamped with the work, and it was plain + that winter would catch the major portion of the outfits on the wrong side + of the divide. + </p> + <p> + Tenderest of the tenderfeet was Kit. Like many hundreds of others he + carried a big revolver swung on a cartridge-belt. Of this, his uncle, + filled with memories of old lawless days, was likewise guilty. But Kit + Bellew was romantic. He was fascinated by the froth and sparkle of the + gold rush, and viewed its life and movement with an artist's eye. He did + not take it seriously. As he said on the steamer, it was not his funeral. + He was merely on a vacation, and intended to peep over the top of the pass + for a “look see” and then to return. + </p> + <p> + Leaving his party on the sand to wait for the putting ashore of the + freight, he strolled up the beach toward the old trading-post. He did not + swagger, though he noticed that many of the be-revolvered individuals did. + A strapping, six-foot Indian passed him, carrying an unusually large pack. + Kit swung in behind, admiring the splendid calves of the man, and the + grace and ease with which he moved along under his burden. The Indian + dropped his pack on the scales in front of the post, and Kit joined the + group of admiring gold-rushers who surrounded him. The pack weighed one + hundred and twenty-five pounds, which fact was uttered back and forth in + tones of awe. It was going some, Kit decided, and he wondered if he could + lift such a weight, much less walk off with it. + </p> + <p> + “Going to Lake Linderman with it, old man?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The Indian, swelling with pride, grunted an affirmative. + </p> + <p> + “How much you make that one pack?” + </p> + <p> + “Fifty dollar.” + </p> + <p> + Here Kit slid out of the conversation. A young woman, standing in the + doorway, had caught his eye. Unlike other women landing from the steamers, + she was neither short-skirted nor bloomer-clad. She was dressed as any + woman travelling anywhere would be dressed. What struck him was the + justness of her being there, a feeling that somehow she belonged. + Moreover, she was young and pretty. The bright beauty and colour of her + oval face held him, and he looked over-long—looked till she + resented, and her own eyes, long-lashed and dark, met his in cool survey. + </p> + <p> + From his face they travelled in evident amusement down to the big revolver + at his thigh. Then her eyes came back to his, and in them was amused + contempt. It struck him like a blow. She turned to the man beside her and + indicated Kit. The man glanced him over with the same amused contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Chechako,” the girl said. + </p> + <p> + The man, who looked like a tramp in his cheap overalls and dilapidated + woollen jacket, grinned dryly, and Kit felt withered, though he knew not + why. But anyway she was an unusually pretty girl, he decided, as the two + moved off. He noted the way of her walk, and recorded the judgment that he + would recognize it over the lapse of a thousand years. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see that man with the girl?” Kit's neighbor asked him excitedly. + “Know who he is?” + </p> + <p> + Kit shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Cariboo Charley. He was just pointed out to me. He struck it big on + Klondike. Old-timer. Been on the Yukon a dozen years. He's just come out.” + </p> + <p> + “What's 'chechako' mean?” Kit asked. + </p> + <p> + “You're one; I'm one,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe I am, but you've got to search me. What does it mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Tenderfoot.” + </p> + <p> + On his way back to the beach, Kit turned the phrase over and over. It + rankled to be called tenderfoot by a slender chit of a woman. + </p> + <p> + Going into a corner among the heaps of freight, his mind still filled with + the vision of the Indian with the redoubtable pack, Kit essayed to learn + his own strength. He picked out a sack of flour which he knew weighed an + even hundred pounds. He stepped astride it, reached down, and strove to + get it on his shoulder. His first conclusion was that one hundred pounds + were real heavy. His next was that his back was weak. His third was an + oath, and it occurred at the end of five futile minutes, when he collapsed + on top of the burden with which he was wrestling. He mopped his forehead, + and across a heap of grub-sacks saw John Bellew gazing at him, wintry + amusement in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “God!” proclaimed that apostle of the hard. “Out of our loins has come a + race of weaklings. When I was sixteen I toyed with things like that.” + </p> + <p> + “You forget, avuncular,” Kit retorted, “that I wasn't raised on + bear-meat.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'll toy with it when I'm sixty.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got to show me.” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew did. He was forty-eight, but he bent over the sack, applied a + tentative, shifting grip that balanced it, and, with a quick heave, stood + erect, the somersaulted sack of flour on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Knack, my boy, knack—and a spine.” + </p> + <p> + Kit took off his hat reverently. + </p> + <p> + “You're a wonder, avuncular, a shining wonder. D'ye think I can learn the + knack?” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew shrugged his shoulders. “You'll be hitting the back trail + before we get started.” + </p> + <p> + “Never you fear,” Kit groaned. “There's O'Hara, the roaring lion, down + there. I'm not going back till I have to.” + </p> + <p> + Kit's first pack was a success. Up to Finnegan's Crossing they had managed + to get Indians to carry the twenty-five-hundred-pound outfit. From that + point their own backs must do the work. They planned to move forward at + the rate of a mile a day. It looked easy—on paper. Since John Bellew + was to stay in camp and do the cooking, he would be unable to make more + than an occasional pack; so to each of the three young men fell the task + of carrying eight hundred pounds one mile each day. If they made + fifty-pound packs, it meant a daily walk of sixteen miles loaded and of + fifteen miles light—“Because we don't back-trip the last time,” Kit + explained the pleasant discovery. Eighty-pound packs meant nineteen miles + travel each day; and hundred-pound packs meant only fifteen miles. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like walking,” said Kit. “Therefore I shall carry one hundred + pounds.” He caught the grin of incredulity on his uncle's face, and added + hastily: “Of course I shall work up to it. A fellow's got to learn the + ropes and tricks. I'll start with fifty.” + </p> + <p> + He did, and ambled gaily along the trail. He dropped the sack at the next + camp-site and ambled back. It was easier than he had thought. But two + miles had rubbed off the velvet of his strength and exposed the underlying + softness. His second pack was sixty-five pounds. It was more difficult, + and he no longer ambled. Several times, following the custom of all + packers, he sat down on the ground, resting the pack behind him on a rock + or stump. With the third pack he became bold. He fastened the straps to a + ninety-five-pound sack of beans and started. At the end of a hundred yards + he felt that he must collapse. He sat down and mopped his face. + </p> + <p> + “Short hauls and short rests,” he muttered. “That's the trick.” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he did not make a hundred yards, and each time he struggled to + his feet for another short haul the pack became undeniably heavier. He + panted for breath, and the sweat streamed from him. Before he had covered + a quarter of a mile he stripped off his woollen shirt and hung it on a + tree. A little later he discarded his hat. At the end of half a mile he + decided he was finished. He had never exerted himself so in his life, and + he knew that he was finished. As he sat and panted, his gaze fell upon the + big revolver and the heavy cartridge-belt. + </p> + <p> + “Ten pounds of junk!” he sneered, as he unbuckled it. + </p> + <p> + He did not bother to hang it on a tree, but flung it into the underbush. + And as the steady tide of packers flowed by him, up trail and down, he + noted that the other tenderfeet were beginning to shed their + shooting-irons. + </p> + <p> + His short hauls decreased. At times a hundred feet was all he could + stagger, and then the ominous pounding of his heart against his eardrums + and the sickening totteriness of his knees compelled him to rest. And his + rests grew longer. But his mind was busy. It was a twenty-eight-mile + portage, which represented as many days, and this, by all accounts, was + the easiest part of it. “Wait till you get to Chilkoot,” others told him + as they rested and talked, “where you climb with hands and feet.” + </p> + <p> + “They ain't going to be no Chilkoot,” was his answer. “Not for me. Long + before that I'll be at peace in my little couch beneath the moss.” + </p> + <p> + A slip and a violent, wrenching effort at recovery frightened him. He felt + that everything inside him had been torn asunder. + </p> + <p> + “If ever I fall down with this on my back, I'm a goner,” he told another + packer. + </p> + <p> + “That's nothing,” came the answer. “Wait till you hit the Canyon. You'll + have to cross a raging torrent on a sixty-foot pine-tree. No guide-ropes, + nothing, and the water boiling at the sag of the log to your knees. If you + fall with a pack on your back, there's no getting out of the straps. You + just stay there and drown.” + </p> + <p> + “Sounds good to me,” he retorted; and out of the depths of his exhaustion + he almost meant it. + </p> + <p> + “They drown three or four a day there,” the man assured him. “I helped + fish a German out of there. He had four thousand in greenbacks on him.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheerful, I must say,” said Kit, battling his way to his feet and + tottering on. + </p> + <p> + He and the sack of beans became a perambulating tragedy. It reminded him + of the old man of the sea who sat on Sinbad's neck. And this was one of + those intensely masculine vacations, he meditated. Compared with it, the + servitude to O'Hara was sweet. Again and again he was nearly seduced by + the thought of abandoning the sack of beans in the brush and of sneaking + around the camp to the beach and catching a steamer for civilization. + </p> + <p> + But he didn't. Somewhere in him was the strain of the hard, and he + repeated over and over to himself that what other men could do, he could. + It became a nightmare chant, and he gibbered it to those that passed him + on the trail. At other times, resting, he watched and envied the stolid, + mule-footed Indians that plodded by under heavier packs. They never seemed + to rest, but went on and on with a steadiness and certitude that were to + him appalling. + </p> + <p> + He sat and cursed—he had no breath for it when under way—and + fought the temptation to sneak back to San Francisco. Before the mile pack + was ended he ceased cursing and took to crying. The tears were tears of + exhaustion and of disgust with self. If ever a man was a wreck, he was. As + the end of the pack came in sight, he strained himself in desperation, + gained the camp-site, and pitched forward on his face, the beans on his + back. It did not kill him, but he lay for fifteen minutes before he could + summon sufficient shreds of strength to release himself from the straps. + Then he became deathly sick, and was so found by Robbie, who had similar + troubles of his own. It was this sickness of Robbie that braced Kit up. + </p> + <p> + “What other men can do, we can do,” Kit told Robbie, though down in his + heart he wondered whether or not he was bluffing. + </p> + <p> + “And I am twenty-seven years old and a man,” he privately assured himself + many times in the days that followed. There was need for it. At the end of + a week, though he had succeeded in moving his eight hundred pounds forward + a mile a day, he had lost fifteen pounds of his own weight. His face was + lean and haggard. All resilience had gone out of his body and mind. He no + longer walked, but plodded. And on the back-trips, travelling light, his + feet dragged almost as much as when he was loaded. + </p> + <p> + He had become a work animal. He fell asleep over his food, and his sleep + was heavy and beastly, save when he was aroused, screaming with agony, by + the cramps in his legs. Every part of him ached. He tramped on raw + blisters; yet even this was easier than the fearful bruising his feet + received on the water-rounded rocks of the Dyea Flats, across which the + trail led for two miles. These two miles represented thirty-eight miles of + travelling. He washed his face once a day. His nails, torn and broken and + afflicted with hangnails, were never cleaned. His shoulders and chest, + galled by the pack-straps, made him think, and for the first time with + understanding, of the horses he had seen on city streets. + </p> + <p> + One ordeal that nearly destroyed him at first had been the food. The + extraordinary amount of work demanded extraordinary stoking, and his + stomach was unaccustomed to great quantities of bacon and of the coarse, + highly poisonous brown beans. As a result, his stomach went back on him, + and for several days the pain and irritation of it and of starvation + nearly broke him down. And then came the day of joy when he could eat like + a ravenous animal, and, wolf-eyed, ask for more. + </p> + <p> + When they had moved the outfit across the foot-logs at the mouth of the + Canyon, they made a change in their plans. Word had come across the Pass + that at Lake Linderman the last available trees for building boats were + being cut. The two cousins, with tools, whipsaw, blankets, and grub on + their backs, went on, leaving Kit and his uncle to hustle along the + outfit. John Bellew now shared the cooking with Kit, and both packed + shoulder to shoulder. Time was flying, and on the peaks the first snow was + falling. To be caught on the wrong side of the Pass meant a delay of + nearly a year. The older man put his iron back under a hundred pounds. Kit + was shocked, but he gritted his teeth and fastened his own straps to a + hundred pounds. It hurt, but he had learned the knack, and his body, + purged of all softness and fat, was beginning to harden up with lean and + bitter muscle. Also, he observed and devised. He took note of the + head-straps worn by the Indians and manufactured one for himself, which he + used in addition to the shoulder-straps. It made things easier, so that he + began the practice of piling any light, cumbersome piece of luggage on + top. Thus, he was soon able to bend along with a hundred pounds in the + straps, fifteen or twenty more lying loosely on top of the pack and + against his neck, an axe or a pair of oars in one hand, and in the other + the nested cooking-pails of the camp. + </p> + <p> + But work as they would, the toil increased. The trail grew more rugged; + their packs grew heavier; and each day saw the snow-line dropping down the + mountains, while freight jumped to sixty cents. No word came from the + cousins beyond, so they knew they must be at work chopping down the + standing trees and whipsawing them into boat-planks. John Bellew grew + anxious. Capturing a bunch of Indians back-tripping from Lake Linderman, + he persuaded them to put their straps on the outfit. They charged thirty + cents a pound to carry it to the summit of Chilkoot, and it nearly broke + him. As it was, some four hundred pounds of clothes-bags and camp outfit + were not handled. He remained behind to move it along, dispatching Kit + with the Indians. At the summit Kit was to remain, slowly moving his ton + until overtaken by the four hundred pounds with which his uncle guaranteed + to catch him. + </p> + <p> + Kit plodded along the trail with his Indian packers. In recognition of the + fact that it was to be a long pack, straight to the top of Chilkoot, his + own load was only eighty pounds. The Indians plodded under their loads, + but it was a quicker gait than he had practised. Yet he felt no + apprehension, and by now had come to deem himself almost the equal of an + Indian. + </p> + <p> + At the end of a quarter of a mile he desired to rest. But the Indians kept + on. He stayed with them, and kept his place in the line. At the half-mile + he was convinced that he was incapable of another step, yet he gritted his + teeth, kept his place, and at the end of the mile was amazed that he was + still alive. Then, in some strange way, came the thing called second wind, + and the next mile was almost easier than the first. The third mile nearly + killed him, but, though half delirious with pain and fatigue, he never + whimpered. And then, when he felt he must surely faint, came the rest. + Instead of sitting in the straps, as was the custom of the white packers, + the Indians slipped out of the shoulder- and head-straps and lay at ease, + talking and smoking. A full half-hour passed before they made another + start. To Kit's surprise he found himself a fresh man, and “long hauls and + long rests” became his newest motto. + </p> + <p> + The pitch of Chilkoot was all he had heard of it, and many were the + occasions when he climbed with hands as well as feet. But when he reached + the crest of the divide in the thick of a driving snow-squall, it was in + the company of his Indians, and his secret pride was that he had come + through with them and never squealed and never lagged. To be almost as + good as an Indian was a new ambition to cherish. + </p> + <p> + When he had paid off the Indians and seen them depart, a stormy darkness + was falling, and he was left alone, a thousand feet above timber-line, on + the backbone of a mountain. Wet to the waist, famished and exhausted, he + would have given a year's income for a fire and a cup of coffee. Instead, + he ate half a dozen cold flapjacks and crawled into the folds of the + partly unrolled tent. As he dozed off he had time for only one fleeting + thought, and he grinned with vicious pleasure at the picture of John + Bellew in the days to follow, masculinely back-tripping his four hundred + pounds up Chilcoot. As for himself, even though burdened with two thousand + pounds, he was bound down the hill. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, stiff from his labours and numb with the frost, he rolled + out of the canvas, ate a couple of pounds of uncooked bacon, buckled the + straps on a hundred pounds, and went down the rocky way. Several hundred + yards beneath, the trail led across a small glacier and down to Crater + Lake. Other men packed across the glacier. All that day he dropped his + packs at the glacier's upper edge, and, by virtue of the shortness of the + pack, he put his straps on one hundred and fifty pounds each load. His + astonishment at being able to do it never abated. For two dollars he + bought from an Indian three leathery sea-biscuits, and out of these, and a + huge quantity of raw bacon, made several meals. Unwashed, unwarmed, his + clothing wet with sweat, he slept another night in the canvas. + </p> + <p> + In the early morning he spread a tarpaulin on the ice, loaded it with + three-quarters of a ton, and started to pull. Where the pitch of the + glacier accelerated, his load likewise accelerated, overran him, scooped + him in on top, and ran away with him. + </p> + <p> + A hundred packers, bending under their loads, stopped to watch him. He + yelled frantic warnings, and those in his path stumbled and staggered + clear. Below, on the lower edge of the glacier, was pitched a small tent, + which seemed leaping toward him, so rapidly did it grow larger. He left + the beaten track where the packers' trail swerved to the left, and struck + a patch of fresh snow. This arose about him in frosty smoke, while it + reduced his speed. He saw the tent the instant he struck it, carrying away + the corner guys, bursting in the front flaps, and fetching up inside, + still on top of the tarpaulin and in the midst of his grub-sacks. The tent + rocked drunkenly, and in the frosty vapour he found himself face to face + with a startled young woman who was sitting up in her blankets—the + very one who had called him a tenderfoot at Dyea. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see my smoke?” he queried cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + She regarded him with disapproval. + </p> + <p> + “Talk about your magic carpets!” he went on. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind removing that sack from my foot?” she said coldly. + </p> + <p> + He looked, and lifted his weight quickly. + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't a sack. It was my elbow. Pardon me.” + </p> + <p> + The information did not perturb her, and her coolness was a challenge. + </p> + <p> + “It was a mercy you did not overturn the stove,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He followed her glance and saw a sheet-iron stove and a coffee-pot, + attended by a young squaw. He sniffed the coffee and looked back to the + girl. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a chechako,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Her bored expression told him that he was stating the obvious. But he was + unabashed. + </p> + <p> + “I've shed my shooting-irons,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Then she recognized him, and her eyes lighted. “I never thought you'd get + this far,” she informed him. + </p> + <p> + Again, and greedily, he sniffed the air. “As I live, coffee!” He turned + and directly addressed her: “I'll give you my little finger—cut it + right off now; I'll do anything; I'll be your slave for a year and a day + or any other old time, if you'll give me a cup out of that pot.” + </p> + <p> + And over the coffee he gave his name and learned hers—Joy Gastell. + Also, he learned that she was an old-timer in the country. She had been + born in a trading-post on the Great Slave, and as a child had crossed the + Rockies with her father and come down to the Yukon. She was going in, she + said, with her father, who had been delayed by business in Seattle, and + who had then been wrecked on the ill-fated Chanter and carried back to + Puget Sound by the rescuing steamer. + </p> + <p> + In view of the fact that she was still in her blankets, he did not make it + a long conversation, and, heroically declining a second cup of coffee, he + removed himself and his heaped and shifted baggage from her tent. Further, + he took several conclusions away with him: she had a fetching name and + fetching eyes; could not be more than twenty, or twenty-one or -two; her + father must be French; she had a will of her own and temperament to burn; + and she had been educated elsewhere than on the frontier. + </p> + <p> + Over the ice-scoured rocks and above the timber-line, the trail ran around + Crater Lake and gained the rocky defile that led toward Happy Camp and the + first scrub-pines. To pack his heavy outfit around would take days of + heart-breaking toil. On the lake was a canvas boat employed in freighting. + Two trips with it, in two hours, would see him and his ton across. But he + was broke, and the ferryman charged forty dollars a ton. + </p> + <p> + “You've got a gold-mine, my friend, in that dinky boat,” Kit said to the + ferryman. “Do you want another gold-mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Show me,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “I'll sell it to you for the price of ferrying my outfit. It's an idea, + not patented, and you can jump the deal as soon as I tell you it. Are you + game?” + </p> + <p> + The ferryman said he was, and Kit liked his looks. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. You see that glacier. Take a pick-axe and wade into it. In a + day you can have a decent groove from top to bottom. See the point? The + Chilkoot and Crater Lake Consolidated Chute Corporation, Limited. You can + charge fifty cents a hundred, get a hundred tons a day, and have no work + to do but collect the coin.” + </p> + <p> + Two hours later, Kit's ton was across the lake, and he had gained three + days on himself. And when John Bellew overtook him, he was well along + toward Deep Lake, another volcanic pit filled with glacial water. + </p> + <p> + The last pack, from Long Lake to Linderman, was three miles, and the + trail, if trail it could be called, rose up over a thousand-foot hogback, + dropped down a scramble of slippery rocks, and crossed a wide stretch of + swamp. John Bellew remonstrated when he saw Kit arise with a hundred + pounds in the straps and pick up a fifty-pound sack of flour and place it + on top of the pack against the back of his neck. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you chunk of the hard,” Kit retorted. “Kick in on your bear-meat + fodder and your one suit of underclothes.” + </p> + <p> + But John Bellew shook his head. “I'm afraid I'm getting old, Christopher.” + </p> + <p> + “You're only forty-eight. Do you realize that my grandfather, sir, your + father, old Isaac Bellew, killed a man with his fist when he was + sixty-nine years old?” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew grinned and swallowed his medicine. + </p> + <p> + “Avuncular, I want to tell you something important. I was raised a Lord + Fauntleroy, but I can outpack you, outwalk you, put you on your back, or + lick you with my fists right now.” + </p> + <p> + John Bellew thrust out his hand and spoke solemnly. “Christopher, my boy, + I believe you can do it. I believe you can do it with that pack on your + back at the same time. You've made good, boy, though it's too unthinkable + to believe.” + </p> + <p> + Kit made the round trip of the last pack four times a day, which is to say + that he daily covered twenty-four miles of mountain climbing, twelve miles + of it under one hundred and fifty pounds. He was proud, hard, and tired, + but in splendid physical condition. He ate and slept as he had never eaten + and slept in his life, and as the end of the work came in sight, he was + almost half sorry. + </p> + <p> + One problem bothered him. He had learned that he could fall with a + hundred-weight on his back and survive; but he was confident, if he fell + with that additional fifty pounds across the back of his neck, that it + would break it clean. Each trail through the swamp was quickly churned + bottomless by the thousands of packers, who were compelled continually to + make new trails. It was while pioneering such a new trail, that he solved + the problem of the extra fifty. + </p> + <p> + The soft, lush surface gave way under him; he floundered, and pitched + forward on his face. The fifty pounds crushed his face in the mud and went + clear without snapping his neck. With the remaining hundred pounds on his + back, he arose on hands and knees. But he got no farther. One arm sank to + the shoulder, pillowing his cheek in the slush. As he drew this arm clear, + the other sank to the shoulder. In this position it was impossible to slip + the straps, and the hundred-weight on his back would not let him rise. On + hands and knees, sinking first one arm and then the other, he made an + effort to crawl to where the small sack of flour had fallen. But he + exhausted himself without advancing, and so churned and broke the grass + surface, that a tiny pool of water began to form in perilous proximity to + his mouth and nose. + </p> + <p> + He tried to throw himself on his back with the pack underneath, but this + resulted in sinking both arms to the shoulders and gave him a foretaste of + drowning. With exquisite patience, he slowly withdrew one sucking arm and + then the other and rested them flat on the surface for the support of his + chin. Then he began to call for help. After a time he heard the sound of + feet sucking through the mud as some one advanced from behind. + </p> + <p> + “Lend a hand, friend,” he said. “Throw out a life-line or something.” + </p> + <p> + It was a woman's voice that answered, and he recognized it. + </p> + <p> + “If you'll unbuckle the straps I can get up.” + </p> + <p> + The hundred pounds rolled into the mud with a soggy noise, and he slowly + gained his feet. + </p> + <p> + “A pretty predicament,” Miss Gastell laughed, at sight of his mud-covered + face. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” he replied airily. “My favourite physical-exercise stunt. + Try it some time. It's great for the pectoral muscles and the spine.” + </p> + <p> + He wiped his face, flinging the slush from his hand with a snappy jerk. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried in recognition. “It's Mr.—ah—Mr. Smoke + Bellew.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you gravely for your timely rescue and for that name,” he + answered. “I have been doubly baptized. Henceforth I shall insist always + on being called Smoke Bellew. It is a strong name, and not without + significance.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and then voice and expression became suddenly fierce. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what I'm going to do?” he demanded. “I'm going back to the + States. I am going to get married. I am going to raise a large family of + children. And then, as the evening shadows fall, I shall gather those + children about me and relate the sufferings and hardships I endured on the + Chilkoot Trail. And if they don't cry—I repeat, if they don't cry, + I'll lambaste the stuffing out of them.” + </p> + <p> + The arctic winter came down apace. Snow that had come to stay lay six + inches on the ground, and the ice was forming in quiet ponds, despite the + fierce gales that blew. It was in the late afternoon, during a lull in + such a gale, that Kit and John Bellew helped the cousins load the boat and + watched it disappear down the lake in a snow-squall. + </p> + <p> + “And now a night's sleep and an early start in the morning,” said John + Bellew. “If we aren't storm-bound at the summit we'll make Dyea to-morrow + night, and if we have luck in catching a steamer we'll be in San Francisco + in a week.” + </p> + <p> + “Enjoyed your vacation?” Kit asked absently. + </p> + <p> + Their camp for that last night at Linderman was a melancholy remnant. + Everything of use, including the tent, had been taken by the cousins. A + tattered tarpaulin, stretched as a wind-break, partially sheltered them + from the driving snow. Supper they cooked on an open fire in a couple of + battered and discarded camp utensils. All that was left them were their + blankets, and food for several meals. + </p> + <p> + From the moment of the departure of the boat, Kit had become absent and + restless. His uncle noticed his condition, and attributed it to the fact + that the end of the hard toil had come. Only once during supper did Kit + speak. + </p> + <p> + “Avuncular,” he said, relevant of nothing, “after this, I wish you'd call + me Smoke. I've made some smoke on this trail, haven't I?” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later he wandered away in the direction of the village of + tents that sheltered the gold-rushers who were still packing or building + their boats. He was gone several hours, and when he returned and slipped + into his blankets John Bellew was asleep. + </p> + <p> + In the darkness of a gale-driven morning, Kit crawled out, built a fire in + his stocking feet, by which he thawed out his frozen shoes, then boiled + coffee and fried bacon. It was a chilly, miserable meal. As soon as it was + finished, they strapped their blankets. As John Bellew turned to lead the + way toward the Chilcoot Trail, Kit held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, avuncular,” he said. + </p> + <p> + John Bellew looked at him and swore in his surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Don't forget, my name's Smoke,” Kit chided. + </p> + <p> + “But what are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + Kit waved his hand in a general direction northward over the storm-lashed + lake. + </p> + <p> + “What's the good of turning back after getting this far?” he asked. + “Besides, I've got my taste of meat, and I like it. I'm going on.” + </p> + <p> + “You're broke,” protested John Bellew. “You have no outfit.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got a job. Behold your nephew, Christopher Smoke Bellew! He's got a + job! He's a gentleman's man! He's got a job at a hundred and fifty per + month and grub. He's going down to Dawson with a couple of dudes and + another gentleman's man—camp-cook, boatman, and general all-around + hustler. And O'Hara and The Billow can go to the devil. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + But John Bellew was dazed, and could only mutter: “I don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + “They say the baldface grizzlies are thick in the Yukon Basin,” Kit + explained. “Well, I've got only one suit of underclothes, and I'm going + after the bear-meat, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II. THE MEAT + </h2> + <p> + Half the time the wind blew a gale, and Smoke Bellew staggered against it + along the beach. In the gray of dawn a dozen boats were being loaded with + the precious outfits packed across Chilkoot. They were clumsy, home-made + boats, put together by men who were not boat-builders, out of planks they + had sawed by hand from green spruce-trees. One boat, already loaded, was + just starting, and Kit paused to watch. + </p> + <p> + The wind, which was fair down the lake, here blew in squarely on the + beach, kicking up a nasty sea in the shallows. The men of the departing + boat waded in high rubber boots as they shoved it out toward deeper water. + Twice they did this. Clambering aboard and failing to row clear, the boat + was swept back and grounded. Kit noticed that the spray on the sides of + the boat quickly turned to ice. The third attempt was a partial success. + The last two men to climb in were wet to their waists, but the boat was + afloat. They struggled awkwardly at the heavy oars, and slowly worked off + shore. Then they hoisted a sail made of blankets, had it carry away in a + gust, and were swept a third time back on the freezing beach. + </p> + <p> + Kit grinned to himself and went on. This was what he must expect to + encounter, for he, too, in his new role of gentleman's man, was to start + from the beach in a similar boat that very day. + </p> + <p> + Everywhere men were at work, and at work desperately, for the closing down + of winter was so imminent that it was a gamble whether or not they would + get across the great chain of lakes before the freeze-up. Yet, when Kit + arrived at the tent of Messrs. Sprague and Stine, he did not find them + stirring. + </p> + <p> + By a fire, under the shelter of a tarpaulin, squatted a short, thick man + smoking a brown-paper cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” he said. “Are you Mister Sprague's new man?” + </p> + <p> + As Kit nodded, he thought he had noted a shade of emphasis on the MISTER + and the MAN, and he was sure of a hint of a twinkle in the corner of the + eye. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm Doc Stine's man,” the other went on. “I'm five feet two inches + long, and my name's Shorty, Jack Short for short, and sometimes known as + Johnny-on-the-Spot.” + </p> + <p> + Kit put out his hand and shook. “Were you raised on bear-meat?” he + queried. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” was the answer; “though my first feedin' was buffalo-milk as near + as I can remember. Sit down an' have some grub. The bosses ain't turned + out yet.” + </p> + <p> + And despite the one breakfast, Kit sat down under the tarpaulin and ate a + second breakfast thrice as hearty. The heavy, purging toil of weeks had + given him the stomach and appetite of a wolf. He could eat anything, in + any quantity, and be unaware that he possessed a digestion. Shorty he + found voluble and pessimistic, and from him he received surprising tips + concerning their bosses and ominous forecasts of the expedition. Thomas + Stanley Sprague was a budding mining engineer and the son of a + millionaire. Doctor Adolph Stine was also the son of a wealthy father. + And, through their fathers, both had been backed by an investing syndicate + in the Klondike adventure. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they're sure made of money,” Shorty expounded. “When they hit the + beach at Dyea, freight was seventy cents, but no Indians. There was a + party from Eastern Oregon, real miners, that'd managed to get a team of + Indians together at seventy cents. Indians had the straps on the outfit, + three thousand pounds of it, when along comes Sprague and Stine. They + offered eighty cents and ninety, and at a dollar a pound the Indians + jumped the contract and took off their straps. Sprague and Stine came + through, though it cost them three thousand, and the Oregon bunch is still + on the beach. They won't get through till next year. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, they are real hummers, your boss and mine, when it comes to sheddin' + the mazuma an' never mindin' other folks' feelin's. What did they do when + they hit Linderman? The carpenters was just putting in the last licks on a + boat they'd contracted to a 'Frisco bunch for six hundred. Sprague and + Stine slipped 'em an even thousand, and they jumped their contract. It's a + good-lookin' boat, but it's jiggered the other bunch. They've got their + outfit right here, but no boat. And they're stuck for next year. + </p> + <p> + “Have another cup of coffee, and take it from me that I wouldn't travel + with no such outfit if I didn't want to get to Klondike so blamed bad. + They ain't hearted right. They'd take the crape off the door of a house in + mourning if they needed it in their business. Did you sign a contract?” + </p> + <p> + Kit shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Then I'm sorry for you, pardner. They ain't no grub in the country, and + they'll drop you cold as soon as they hit Dawson. Men are going to starve + there this winter.” + </p> + <p> + “They agreed—” Kit began. + </p> + <p> + “Verbal,” Shorty snapped him short. “It's your say-so against theirs, + that's all. Well, anyway, what's your name, pardner?” + </p> + <p> + “Call me Smoke,” said Kit. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Smoke, you'll have a run for your verbal contract just the same. + This is a plain sample of what to expect. They can sure shed mazuma, but + they can't work, or turn out of bed in the morning. We should have been + loaded and started an hour ago. It's you an' me for the big work. Pretty + soon you'll hear 'em shoutin' for their coffee—in bed, mind you, and + them grown men. What d'ye know about boatin' on the water? I'm a cowman + and a prospector, but I'm sure tenderfooted on water, an' they don't know + punkins. What d'ye know?” + </p> + <p> + “Search me,” Kit answered, snuggling in closer under the tarpaulin as the + snow whirled before a fiercer gust. “I haven't been on a small boat since + a boy. But I guess we can learn.” + </p> + <p> + A corner of the tarpaulin tore loose, and Shorty received a jet of driven + snow down the back of his neck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we can learn all right,” he muttered wrathfully. “Sure we can. A + child can learn. But it's dollars to doughnuts we don't even get started + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + It was eight o'clock when the call for coffee came from the tent, and + nearly nine before the two employers emerged. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” said Sprague, a rosy-cheeked, well-fed young man of twenty-five. + “Time we made a start, Shorty. You and—” Here he glanced + interrogatively at Kit. “I didn't quite catch your name last evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Shorty, you and Mr. Smoke had better begin loading the boat.” + </p> + <p> + “Plain Smoke—cut out the Mister,” Kit suggested. + </p> + <p> + Sprague nodded curtly and strolled away among the tents, to be followed by + Doctor Stine, a slender, pallid young man. + </p> + <p> + Shorty looked significantly at his companion. “Over a ton and a half of + outfit, and they won't lend a hand. You'll see.” + </p> + <p> + “I guess it's because we're paid to do the work,” Kit answered cheerfully, + “and we might as well buck in.” + </p> + <p> + To move three thousand pounds on the shoulders a hundred yards was no + slight task, and to do it in half a gale, slushing through the snow in + heavy rubber boots, was exhausting. In addition, there was the taking down + of the tent and the packing of small camp equipage. Then came the loading. + As the boat settled, it had to be shoved farther and farther out, + increasing the distance they had to wade. By two o'clock it had all been + accomplished, and Kit, despite his two breakfasts, was weak with the + faintness of hunger. His knees were shaking under him. Shorty, in similar + predicament, foraged through the pots and pans, and drew forth a big pot + of cold boiled beans in which were imbedded large chunks of bacon. There + was only one spoon, a long-handled one, and they dipped, turn and turn + about, into the pot. Kit was filled with an immense certitude that in all + his life he had never tasted anything so good. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, man,” he mumbled between chews, “I never knew what appetite was + till I hit the trail.” + </p> + <p> + Sprague and Stine arrived in the midst of this pleasant occupation. + </p> + <p> + “What's the delay?” Sprague complained. “Aren't we ever going to get + started?” + </p> + <p> + Shorty dipped in turn, and passed the spoon to Kit. Nor did either speak + till the pot was empty and the bottom scraped. + </p> + <p> + “Of course we ain't been doin' nothing,” Shorty said, wiping his mouth + with the back of his hand. “We ain't been doin' nothing at all. And of + course you ain't had nothing to eat. It was sure careless of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” Stine said quickly. “We ate at one of the tents—friends + of ours.” + </p> + <p> + “Thought so,” Shorty grunted. + </p> + <p> + “But now that you're finished, let us get started,” Sprague urged. + </p> + <p> + “There's the boat,” said Shorty. “She's sure loaded. Now, just how might + you be goin' about to get started?” + </p> + <p> + “By climbing aboard and shoving off. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + They waded out, and the employers got on board, while Kit and Shorty + shoved clear. When the waves lapped the tops of their boots they clambered + in. The other two men were not prepared with the oars, and the boat swept + back and grounded. Half a dozen times, with a great expenditure of energy, + this was repeated. + </p> + <p> + Shorty sat down disconsolately on the gunwale, took a chew of tobacco, and + questioned the universe, while Kit baled the boat and the other two + exchanged unkind remarks. + </p> + <p> + “If you'll take my orders, I'll get her off,” Sprague finally said. + </p> + <p> + The attempt was well intended, but before he could clamber on board he was + wet to the waist. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to camp and build a fire,” he said, as the boat grounded again. + “I'm freezing.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be afraid of a wetting,” Stine sneered. “Other men have gone off + to-day wetter than you. Now I'm going to take her out.” + </p> + <p> + This time it was he who got the wetting and who announced with chattering + teeth the need of a fire. + </p> + <p> + “A little splash like that!” Sprague chattered spitefully. “We'll go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Shorty, dig out my clothes-bag and make a fire,” the other commanded. + </p> + <p> + “You'll do nothing of the sort,” Sprague cried. + </p> + <p> + Shorty looked from one to the other, expectorated, but did not move. + </p> + <p> + “He's working for me, and I guess he obeys my orders,” Stine retorted. + “Shorty, take that bag ashore.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty obeyed, and Sprague shivered in the boat. Kit, having received no + orders, remained inactive, glad of the rest. + </p> + <p> + “A boat divided against itself won't float,” he soliloquized. + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” Sprague snarled at him. + </p> + <p> + “Talking to myself—habit of mine,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + His employer favoured him with a hard look, and sulked several minutes + longer. Then he surrendered. + </p> + <p> + “Get out my bag, Smoke,” he ordered, “and lend a hand with that fire. We + won't get off till morning now.” + </p> + <p> + Next day the gale still blew. Lake Linderman was no more than a narrow + mountain gorge filled with water. Sweeping down from the mountains through + this funnel, the wind was irregular, blowing great guns at times and at + other times dwindling to a strong breeze. + </p> + <p> + “If you give me a shot at it, I think I can get her off,” Kit said, when + all was ready for the start. + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about it?” Stine snapped at him. + </p> + <p> + “Search me,” Kit answered, and subsided. + </p> + <p> + It was the first time he had worked for wages in his life, but he was + learning the discipline of it fast. Obediently and cheerfully he joined in + various vain efforts to get clear of the beach. + </p> + <p> + “How would you go about it?” Sprague finally half panted, half whined at + him. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down and get a good rest till a lull comes in the wind, and then buck + in for all we're worth.” + </p> + <p> + Simple as the idea was, he had been the first to evolve it; the first time + it was applied it worked, and they hoisted a blanket to the mast and sped + down the lake. Stine and Sprague immediately became cheerful. Shorty, + despite his chronic pessimism, was always cheerful, and Kit was too + interested to be otherwise. Sprague struggled with the steering-sweep for + a quarter of an hour, and then looked appealingly at Kit, who relieved + him. + </p> + <p> + “My arms are fairly broken with the strain of it,” Sprague muttered + apologetically. + </p> + <p> + “You never ate bear-meat, did you?” Kit asked sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “What the devil do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing; I was just wondering.” + </p> + <p> + But behind his employer's back Kit caught the approving grin of Shorty, + who had already caught the whim of his metaphor. + </p> + <p> + Kit steered the length of Linderman, displaying an aptitude that caused + both young men of money and disinclination for work to name him + boat-steerer. Shorty was no less pleased, and volunteered to continue + cooking and leave the boat work to the other. + </p> + <p> + Between Linderman and Lake Bennett was a portage. The boat, lightly + loaded, was lined down the small but violent connecting stream, and here + Kit learned a vast deal more about boats and water. But when it came to + packing the outfit, Stine and Sprague disappeared, and their men spent two + days of back-breaking toil in getting the outfit across. And this was the + history of many miserable days of the trip—Kit and Shorty working to + exhaustion, while their masters toiled not and demanded to be waited upon. + </p> + <p> + But the iron-bound arctic winter continued to close down, and they were + held back by numerous and unavoidable delays. At Windy Arm, Stine + arbitrarily dispossessed Kit of the steering-sweep and within the hour + wrecked the boat on a wave-beaten lee shore. Two days were lost here in + making repairs, and the morning of the fresh start, as they came down to + embark, on stern and bow, in large letters, was charcoaled “The Chechako.” + </p> + <p> + Kit grinned at the appropriateness of the invidious word. + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” said Shorty, when accused by Stine. “I can sure read and spell, an' + I know that chechako means tenderfoot, but my education never went high + enough to learn me to spell a jaw-breaker like that.” + </p> + <p> + Both employers looked daggers at Kit, for the insult rankled; nor did he + mention that the night before, Shorty had besought him for the spelling of + that particular word. + </p> + <p> + “That's 'most as bad as your bear-meat slam at 'em,” Shorty confided + later. + </p> + <p> + Kit chuckled. Along with the continuous discovery of his own powers had + come an ever-increasing disapproval of the two masters. It was not so much + irritation, which was always present, as disgust. He had got his taste of + the meat, and liked it; but they were teaching him how not to eat it. + Privily, he thanked God that he was not made as they. He came to dislike + them to a degree that bordered on hatred. Their malingering bothered him + less than their helpless inefficiency. Somewhere in him, old Isaac Bellew + and all the rest of the hardy Bellews were making good. + </p> + <p> + “Shorty,” he said one day, in the usual delay of getting started, “I could + almost fetch them a rap over the head with an oar and bury them in the + river.” + </p> + <p> + “Same here,” Shorty agreed. “They're not meat-eaters. They're fish-eaters, + and they sure stink.” + </p> + <p> + They came to the rapids; first, the Box Canyon, and, several miles below, + the White Horse. The Box Canyon was adequately named. It was a box, a + trap. Once in it, the only way out was through. On either side arose + perpendicular walls of rock. The river narrowed to a fraction of its width + and roared through this gloomy passage in a madness of motion that heaped + the water in the center into a ridge fully eight feet higher than at the + rocky sides. This ridge, in turn, was crested with stiff, upstanding waves + that curled over yet remained each in its unvarying place. The Canyon was + well feared, for it had collected its toll of dead from the passing + goldrushers. + </p> + <p> + Tying to the bank above, where lay a score of other anxious boats, Kit and + his companions went ahead on foot to investigate. They crept to the brink + and gazed down at the swirl of water. Sprague drew back, shuddering. + </p> + <p> + “My God!” he exclaimed. “A swimmer hasn't a chance in that.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty touched Kit significantly with his elbow and said in an undertone: + </p> + <p> + “Cold feet. Dollars to doughnuts they don't go through.” + </p> + <p> + Kit scarcely heard. From the beginning of the boat trip he had been + learning the stubbornness and inconceivable viciousness of the elements, + and this glimpse of what was below him acted as a challenge. “We've got to + ride that ridge,” he said. “If we get off it we'll hit the walls.” + </p> + <p> + “And never know what hit us,” was Shorty's verdict. “Can you swim, Smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “I'd wish I couldn't if anything went wrong in there.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I say,” a stranger, standing alongside and peering down into + the Canyon, said mournfully. “And I wish I were through it.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't sell my chance to go through,” Kit answered. + </p> + <p> + He spoke honestly, but it was with the idea of heartening the man. He + turned to go back to the boat. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to tackle it?” the man asked. + </p> + <p> + Kit nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could get the courage to,” the other confessed. “I've been here + for hours. The longer I look, the more afraid I am. I am not a boatman, + and I have with me only my nephew, who is a young boy, and my wife. If you + get through safely, will you run my boat through?” + </p> + <p> + Kit looked at Shorty, who delayed to answer. + </p> + <p> + “He's got his wife with him,” Kit suggested. Nor had he mistaken his man. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Shorty affirmed. “It was just what I was stopping to think about. + I knew there was some reason I ought to do it.” + </p> + <p> + Again they turned to go, but Sprague and Stine made no movement. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck, Smoke,” Sprague called to him. “I'll—er—” He + hesitated. “I'll just stay here and watch you.” + </p> + <p> + “We need three men in the boat, two at the oars and one at the + steering-sweep,” Kit said quietly. + </p> + <p> + Sprague looked at Stine. + </p> + <p> + “I'm damned if I do,” said that gentleman. “If you're not afraid to stand + here and look on, I'm not.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's afraid?” Sprague demanded hotly. + </p> + <p> + Stine retorted in kind, and their two men left them in the thick of a + squabble. + </p> + <p> + “We can do without them,” Kit said to Shorty. “You take the bow with a + paddle, and I'll handle the steering-sweep. All you'll have to do is just + to help keep her straight. Once we're started, you won't be able to hear + me, so just keep on keeping her straight.” + </p> + <p> + They cast off the boat and worked out to middle in the quickening current. + From the Canyon came an ever-growing roar. The river sucked in to the + entrance with the smoothness of molten glass, and here, as the darkening + walls received them, Shorty took a chew of tobacco and dipped his paddle. + The boat leaped on the first crests of the ridge, and they were deafened + by the uproar of wild water that reverberated from the narrow walls and + multiplied itself. They were half-smothered with flying spray. At times + Kit could not see his comrade at the bow. It was only a matter of two + minutes, in which time they rode the ridge three-quarters of a mile and + emerged in safety and tied to the bank in the eddy below. + </p> + <p> + Shorty emptied his mouth of tobacco juice—he had forgotten to spit—and + spoke. + </p> + <p> + “That was bear-meat,” he exulted, “the real bear-meat. Say, we want a few, + didn't we? Smoke, I don't mind tellin' you in confidence that before we + started I was the gosh-dangdest scaredest man this side of the Rocky + Mountains. Now I'm a bear-eater. Come on an' we'll run that other boat + through.” + </p> + <p> + Midway back, on foot, they encountered their employers, who had watched + the passage from above. + </p> + <p> + “There comes the fish-eaters,” said Shorty. “Keep to win'ward.” + </p> + <p> + After running the stranger's boat through, whose name proved to be Breck, + Kit and Shorty met his wife, a slender, girlish woman whose blue eyes were + moist with gratitude. Breck himself tried to hand Kit fifty dollars, and + then attempted it on Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “Stranger,” was the latter's rejection, “I come into this country to make + money outa the ground an' not outa my fellow critters.” + </p> + <p> + Breck rummaged in his boat and produced a demijohn of whiskey. Shorty's + hand half went out to it and stopped abruptly. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “There's that blamed White Horse right below, an' they say it's worse than + the Box. I reckon I don't dast tackle any lightning.” + </p> + <p> + Several miles below they ran in to the bank, and all four walked down to + look at the bad water. The river, which was a succession of rapids, was + here deflected toward the right bank by a rocky reef. The whole body of + water, rushing crookedly into the narrow passage, accelerated its speed + frightfully and was up-flung into huge waves, white and wrathful. This was + the dread Mane of the White Horse, and here an even heavier toll of dead + had been exacted. On one side of the Mane was a corkscrew curl-over and + suck-under, and on the opposite side was the big whirlpool. To go through, + the Mane itself must be ridden. + </p> + <p> + “This plum rips the strings outa the Box,” Shorty concluded. + </p> + <p> + As they watched, a boat took the head of the rapids above. It was a large + boat, fully thirty feet long, laden with several tons of outfit, and + handled by six men. Before it reached the Mane it was plunging and + leaping, at times almost hidden by the foam and spray. + </p> + <p> + Shorty shot a slow, sidelong glance at Kit and said: “She's fair smoking, + and she hasn't hit the worst. They've hauled the oars in. There she takes + it now. God! She's gone! No; there she is!” + </p> + <p> + Big as the boat was, it had been buried from sight in the flying smother + between crests. The next moment, in the thick of the Mane, the boat leaped + up a crest and into view. To Kit's amazement he saw the whole long bottom + clearly outlined. The boat, for the fraction of an instant, was in the + air, the men sitting idly in their places, all save one in the stern, who + stood at the steering-sweep. Then came the downward plunge into the trough + and a second disappearance. Three times the boat leaped and buried itself, + then those on the bank saw its nose take the whirlpool as it slipped off + the Mane. The steersman, vainly opposing with his full weight on the + steering-gear, surrendered to the whirlpool and helped the boat to take + the circle. + </p> + <p> + Three times it went around, each time so close to the rocks on which Kit + and Shorty stood that either could have leaped on board. The steersman, a + man with a reddish beard of recent growth, waved his hand to them. The + only way out of the whirlpool was by the Mane, and on the third round the + boat entered the Mane obliquely at its upper end. Possibly out of fear of + the draw of the whirlpool, the steersman did not attempt to straighten out + quickly enough. When he did, it was too late. Alternately in the air and + buried, the boat angled the Mane and was sucked into and down through the + stiff wall of the corkscrew on the opposite side of the river. A hundred + feet below, boxes and bales began to float up. Then appeared the bottom of + the boat and the scattered heads of six men. Two managed to make the bank + in the eddy below. The others were drawn under, and the general flotsam + was lost to view, borne on by the swift current around the bend. + </p> + <p> + There was a long minute of silence. Shorty was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” he said. “We might as well tackle it. My feet'll get cold if I + stay here any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll smoke some,” Kit grinned at him. + </p> + <p> + “And you'll sure earn your name,” was the rejoinder. Shorty turned to + their employers. “Comin'?” he queried. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the roar of the water prevented them from hearing the invitation. + </p> + <p> + Shorty and Kit tramped back through a foot of snow to the head of the + rapids and cast off the boat. Kit was divided between two impressions: + one, of the caliber of his comrade, which served as a spur to him; the + other, likewise a spur, was the knowledge that old Isaac Bellew, and all + the other Bellews, had done things like this in their westward march of + empire. What they had done, he could do. It was the meat, the strong meat, + and he knew, as never before, that it required strong men to eat such + meat. + </p> + <p> + “You've sure got to keep the top of the ridge,” Shorty shouted at him, the + plug of tobacco lifting to his mouth, as the boat quickened in the + quickening current and took the head of the rapids. + </p> + <p> + Kit nodded, swayed his strength and weight tentatively on the + steering-gear, and headed the boat for the plunge. + </p> + <p> + Several minutes later, half-swamped and lying against the bank in the eddy + below the White Horse, Shorty spat out a mouthful of tobacco juice and + shook Kit's hand. + </p> + <p> + “Meat! Meat!” Shorty chanted. “We eat it raw! We eat it alive!” + </p> + <p> + At the top of the bank they met Breck. His wife stood at a little + distance. Kit shook his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid your boat can't make it,” he said. “It is smaller than ours + and a bit cranky.” + </p> + <p> + The man pulled out a row of bills. + </p> + <p> + “I'll give you each a hundred if you run it through.” + </p> + <p> + Kit looked out and up the tossing Mane of the White Horse. A long, gray + twilight was falling, it was turning colder, and the landscape seemed + taking on a savage bleakness. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't that,” Shorty was saying. “We don't want your money. Wouldn't + touch it nohow. But my pardner is the real meat with boats, and when he + says yourn ain't safe I reckon he knows what he's talkin' about.” + </p> + <p> + Kit nodded affirmation, and chanced to glance at Mrs Breck. Her eyes were + fixed upon him, and he knew that if ever he had seen prayer in a woman's + eyes he was seeing it then. Shorty followed his gaze and saw what he saw. + They looked at each other in confusion and did not speak. Moved by the + common impulse, they nodded to each other and turned to the trail that led + to the head of the rapids. They had not gone a hundred yards when they met + Stine and Sprague coming down. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” the latter demanded. + </p> + <p> + “To fetch that other boat through,” Shorty answered. + </p> + <p> + “No, you're not. It's getting dark. You two are going to pitch camp.” + </p> + <p> + So huge was Kit's disgust that he forebore to speak. + </p> + <p> + “He's got his wife with him,” Shorty said. + </p> + <p> + “That's his lookout,” Stine contributed. + </p> + <p> + “And Smoke's and mine,” was Shorty's retort. + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you,” Sprague said harshly. “Smoke, if you go another step I'll + discharge you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, too, Shorty,” Stine added. + </p> + <p> + “And a hell of a pickle you'll be in with us fired,” Shorty replied. + “How'll you get your blamed boat to Dawson? Who'll serve you coffee in + your blankets and manicure your finger-nails? Come on, Smoke. They don't + dast fire us. Besides, we've got agreements. If they fire us they've got + to divvy up grub to last us through the winter.” + </p> + <p> + Barely had they shoved Breck's boat out from the bank and caught the first + rough water, when the waves began to lap aboard. They were small waves, + but it was an earnest of what was to come. Shorty cast back a quizzical + glance as he gnawed at his inevitable plug, and Kit felt a strange rush of + warmth at his heart for this man who couldn't swim and who couldn't back + out. + </p> + <p> + The rapids grew stiffer, and the spray began to fly. In the gathering + darkness, Kit glimpsed the Mane and the crooked fling of the current into + it. He worked into this crooked current, and felt a glow of satisfaction + as the boat hit the head of the Mane squarely in the middle. After that, + in the smother, leaping and burying and swamping, he had no clear + impression of anything save that he swung his weight on the steering-oar + and wished his uncle were there to see. They emerged, breathless, wet + through, the boat filled with water almost to the gunwale. Lighter pieces + of baggage and outfit were floating inside the boat. A few careful strokes + on Shorty's part worked the boat into the draw of the eddy, and the eddy + did the rest till the boat softly touched the bank. Looking down from + above was Mrs. Breck. Her prayer had been answered, and the tears were + streaming down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “You boys have simply got to take the money,” Breck called down to them. + </p> + <p> + Shorty stood up, slipped, and sat down in the water, while the boat dipped + one gunwale under and righted again. + </p> + <p> + “Damn the money,” said Shorty. “Fetch out that whiskey. Now that it's over + I'm getting cold feet, an' I'm sure likely to have a chill.” + </p> + <p> + In the morning, as usual, they were among the last of the boats to start. + Breck, despite his boating inefficiency, and with only his wife and nephew + for crew, had broken camp, loaded his boat, and pulled out at the first + streak of day. But there was no hurrying Stine and Sprague, who seemed + incapable of realizing that the freeze-up might come at any time. They + malingered, got in the way, delayed, and doubled the work of Kit and + Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sure losing my respect for God, seein' as he must 'a' made them two + mistakes in human form,” was the latter's blasphemous way of expressing + his disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you're the real goods, at any rate,” Kit grinned back at him. “It + makes me respect God the more just to look at you.” + </p> + <p> + “He was sure goin' some, eh?” was Shorty's fashion of overcoming the + embarrassment of the compliment. + </p> + <p> + The trail by water crossed Lake Labarge. Here was no fast current, but a + tideless stretch of forty miles which must be rowed unless a fair wind + blew. But the time for fair wind was past, and an icy gale blew in their + teeth out of the north. This made a rough sea, against which it was almost + impossible to pull the boat. Added to their troubles was driving snow; + also, the freezing of the water on their oar-blades kept one man occupied + in chopping it off with a hatchet. Compelled to take their turn at the + oars, Sprague and Stine patently loafed. Kit had learned how to throw his + weight on an oar, but he noted that his employers made a seeming of + throwing their weights and that they dipped their oars at a cheating + angle. + </p> + <p> + At the end of three hours, Sprague pulled his oar in and said they would + run back into the mouth of the river for shelter. Stine seconded him, and + the several hard-won miles were lost. A second day, and a third, the same + fruitless attempt was made. In the river mouth, the continually arriving + boats from White Horse made a flotilla of over two hundred. Each day forty + or fifty arrived, and only two or three won to the northwest shore of the + lake and did not come back. Ice was now forming in the eddies, and + connecting from eddy to eddy in thin lines around the points. The + freeze-up was very imminent. + </p> + <p> + “We could make it if they had the souls of clams,” Kit told Shorty, as + they dried their moccasins by the fire on the evening of the third day. + “We could have made it to-day if they hadn't turned back. Another hour's + work would have fetched that west shore. They're—they're babes in + the woods.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Shorty agreed. He turned his moccasin to the flame and debated a + moment. “Look here, Smoke. It's hundreds of miles to Dawson. If we don't + want to freeze in here, we've got to do something. What d'ye say?” + </p> + <p> + Kit looked at him, and waited. + </p> + <p> + “We've got the immortal cinch on them two babes,” Shorty expounded. “They + can give orders an' shed mazuma, but as you say, they're plum babes. If + we're goin' to Dawson, we got to take charge of this here outfit.” + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “It's a go,” said Kit, as his hand went out in ratification. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, long before daylight, Shorty issued his call. “Come on!” + he roared. “Tumble out, you sleepers! Here's your coffee! Kick into it! + We're goin' to make a start!” + </p> + <p> + Grumbling and complaining, Stine and Sprague were forced to get under way + two hours earlier than ever before. If anything, the gale was stiffer, and + in a short time every man's face was iced up, while the oars were heavy + with ice. Three hours they struggled, and four, one man steering, one + chopping ice, two toiling at the oars, and each taking his various turns. + The northwest shore loomed nearer and nearer. The gale blew ever harder, + and at last Sprague pulled in his oar in token of surrender. Shorty sprang + to it, though his relief had only begun. + </p> + <p> + “Chop ice,” he said, handing Sprague the hatchet. + </p> + <p> + “But what's the use?” the other whined. “We can't make it. We're going to + turn back.” + </p> + <p> + “We're going on,” said Shorty. “Chop ice. An' when you feel better you can + spell me.” + </p> + <p> + It was heart-breaking toil, but they gained the shore, only to find it + composed of surge-beaten rocks and cliffs, with no place to land. + </p> + <p> + “I told you so,” Sprague whimpered. + </p> + <p> + “You never peeped,” Shorty answered. + </p> + <p> + “We're going back.” + </p> + <p> + Nobody spoke, and Kit held the boat into the seas as they skirted the + forbidding shore. Sometimes they gained no more than a foot to the stroke, + and there were times when two or three strokes no more than enabled them + to hold their own. He did his best to hearten the two weaklings. He + pointed out that the boats which had won to this shore had never come + back. Perforce, he argued, they had found a shelter somewhere ahead. + Another hour they labored, and a second. + </p> + <p> + “If you fellows'd put into your oars some of that coffee you swig in your + blankets, we'd make it,” was Shorty's encouragement. “You're just goin' + through the motions an' not pullin' a pound.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, Sprague drew in his oar. + </p> + <p> + “I'm finished,” he said, and there were tears in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “So are the rest of us,” Kit answered, himself ready to cry or to commit + murder, so great was his exhaustion. “But we're going on just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “We're going back. Turn the boat around.” + </p> + <p> + “Shorty, if he won't pull, take that oar yourself,” Kit commanded. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” was the answer. “He can chop ice.” + </p> + <p> + But Sprague refused to give over the oar; Stine had ceased rowing, and the + boat was drifting backward. + </p> + <p> + “Turn around, Smoke,” Sprague ordered. + </p> + <p> + And Kit, who never in his life had cursed any man, astonished himself. + </p> + <p> + “I'll see you in hell, first,” he replied. “Take hold of that oar and + pull.” + </p> + <p> + It is in moments of exhaustion that men lose all their reserves of + civilization, and such a moment had come. Each man had reached the + breaking-point. Sprague jerked off a mitten, drew his revolver, and turned + it on his steersman. This was a new experience to Kit. He had never had a + gun presented at him in his life. And now, to his surprise, it seemed to + mean nothing at all. It was the most natural thing in the world. + </p> + <p> + “If you don't put that gun up,” he said, “I'll take it away and rap you + over the knuckles with it.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't turn the boat around, I'll shoot you,” Sprague threatened. + </p> + <p> + Then Shorty took a hand. He ceased chopping ice and stood up behind + Sprague. + </p> + <p> + “Go on an' shoot,” said Shorty, wiggling the hatchet. “I'm just aching for + a chance to brain you. Go on an' start the festivities.” + </p> + <p> + “This is mutiny,” Stine broke in. “You were engaged to obey orders.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty turned on him. “Oh, you'll get yours as soon as I finish with your + pardner, you little hog-wallopin' snooper, you.” + </p> + <p> + “Sprague,” Kit said, “I'll give you just thirty seconds to put away that + gun and get that oar out.” + </p> + <p> + Sprague hesitated, gave a short hysterical laugh, put the revolver away, + and bent his back to the work. + </p> + <p> + For two hours more, inch by inch, they fought their way along the edge of + the foaming rocks, until Kit feared he had made a mistake. And then, when + on the verge of himself turning back, they came abreast of a narrow + opening, not twenty feet wide, which led into a land-locked enclosure + where the fiercest gusts scarcely flawed the surface. It was the haven + gained by the boats of previous days. They landed on a shelving beach, and + the two employers lay in collapse in the boat, while Kit and Shorty + pitched the tent, built a fire, and started the cooking. + </p> + <p> + “What's a hog-walloping snooper, Shorty?” Kit asked. + </p> + <p> + “Blamed if I know,” was the answer; “but he's one just the same.” + </p> + <p> + The gale, which had been dying quickly, ceased at nightfall, and it came + on clear and cold. A cup of coffee, set aside to cool and forgotten, a few + minutes later was found coated with half an inch of ice. At eight o'clock, + when Sprague and Stine, already rolled in their blankets, were sleeping + the sleep of exhaustion, Kit came back from a look at the boat. + </p> + <p> + “It's the freeze-up, Shorty,” he announced. “There's a skin of ice over + the whole pond already.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “There's only one thing. The lake of course freezes first. The rapid + current of the river may keep it open for days. This time to-morrow any + boat caught in Lake Labarge remains there until next year.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean we got to get out to-night? Now?” + </p> + <p> + Kit nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Tumble out, you sleepers!” was Shorty's answer, couched in a roar, as he + began casting off the guy-ropes of the tent. + </p> + <p> + The other two awoke, groaning with the pain of stiffened muscles and the + pain of rousing from the sleep of exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “What time is it?” Stine asked. + </p> + <p> + “Half-past eight.” + </p> + <p> + “It's dark yet,” was the objection. + </p> + <p> + Shorty jerked out a couple of guy-ropes, and the tent began to sag. + </p> + <p> + “It's not morning,” he said. “It's evening. Come on. The lake's freezin'. + We got to get acrost.” + </p> + <p> + Stine sat up, his face bitter and wrathful. “Let it freeze. We're not + going to stir.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Shorty. “We're goin' on with the boat.” + </p> + <p> + “You were engaged—” + </p> + <p> + “To take your outfit to Dawson,” Shorty caught him up. “Well, we're takin' + it, ain't we?” He punctuated his query by bringing half the tent down on + top of them. + </p> + <p> + They broke their way through the thin ice in the little harbor, and came + out on the lake, where the water, heavy and glassy, froze on their oars + with every stroke. The water soon became like mush, clogging the stroke of + the oars and freezing in the air even as it dripped. Later the surface + began to form a skin, and the boat proceeded slower and slower. + </p> + <p> + Often afterwards, when Kit tried to remember that night and failed to + bring up aught but nightmare recollections, he wondered what must have + been the sufferings of Stine and Sprague. His one impression of himself + was that he struggled through biting frost and intolerable exertion for a + thousand years, more or less. + </p> + <p> + Morning found them stationary. Stine complained of frosted fingers, and + Sprague of his nose, while the pain in Kit's cheeks and nose told him that + he, too, had been touched. With each accretion of daylight they could see + farther, and as far as they could see was icy surface. The water of the + lake was gone. A hundred yards away was the shore of the north end. Shorty + insisted that it was the opening of the river and that he could see water. + He and Kit alone were able to work, and with their oars they broke the ice + and forced the boat along. And at the last gasp of their strength they + made the suck of the rapid river. One look back showed them several boats + which had fought through the night and were hopelessly frozen in; then + they whirled around a bend in a current running six miles an hour. + </p> + <p> + Day by day they floated down the swift river, and day by day the shore-ice + extended farther out. When they made camp at nightfall, they chopped a + space in the ice in which to lay the boat and carried the camp outfit + hundreds of feet to shore. In the morning, they chopped the boat out + through the new ice and caught the current. Shorty set up the sheet-iron + stove in the boat, and over this Stine and Sprague hung through the long, + drifting hours. They had surrendered, no longer gave orders, and their one + desire was to gain Dawson. Shorty, pessimistic, indefatigable, and joyous, + at frequent intervals roared out the three lines of the first four-line + stanza of a song he had forgotten. The colder it got the oftener he sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Like Argus of the ancient times, + We leave this Modern Greece; + Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tum, + To shear the Golden Fleece.” + </pre> + <p> + As they passed the mouths of the Hootalinqua and the Big and Little + Salmon, they found these streams throwing mush-ice into the main Yukon. + This gathered about the boat and attached itself, and at night they found + themselves compelled to chop the boat out of the current. In the morning + they chopped the boat back into the current. + </p> + <p> + The last night ashore was spent between the mouths of the White River and + the Stewart. At daylight they found the Yukon, half a mile wide, running + white from ice-rimmed bank to ice-rimmed bank. Shorty cursed the universe + with less geniality than usual, and looked at Kit. + </p> + <p> + “We'll be the last boat this year to make Dawson,” Kit said. + </p> + <p> + “But they ain't no water, Smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll ride the ice down. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + Futilely protesting, Sprague and Stine were bundled on board. For half an + hour, with axes, Kit and Shorty struggled to cut a way into the swift but + solid stream. When they did succeed in clearing the shore-ice, the + floating ice forced the boat along the edge for a hundred yards, tearing + away half of one gunwale and making a partial wreck of it. Then, at the + lower end of the bend, they caught the current that flung off-shore. They + proceeded to work farther toward the middle. The stream was no longer + composed of mush-ice but of hard cakes. In between the cakes only was + mush-ice, that froze solidly as they looked at it. Shoving with the oars + against the cakes, sometimes climbing out on the cakes in order to force + the boat along, after an hour they gained the middle. Five minutes after + they ceased their exertions, the boat was frozen in. The whole river was + coagulating as it ran. Cake froze to cake, until at last the boat was the + center of a cake seventy-five feet in diameter. Sometimes they floated + sideways, sometimes stern-first, while gravity tore asunder the forming + fetters in the moving mass, only to be manacled by faster-forming ones. + While the hours passed, Shorty stoked the stove, cooked meals, and chanted + his war-song. + </p> + <p> + Night came, and after many efforts, they gave up the attempt to force the + boat to shore, and through the darkness they swept helplessly onward. + </p> + <p> + “What if we pass Dawson?” Shorty queried. + </p> + <p> + “We'll walk back,” Kit answered, “if we're not crushed in a jam.” + </p> + <p> + The sky was clear, and in the light of the cold, leaping stars they caught + occasional glimpses of the loom of mountains on either hand. At eleven + o'clock, from below, came a dull, grinding roar. Their speed began to + diminish, and cakes of ice to up-end and crash and smash about them. The + river was jamming. One cake, forced upward, slid across their cake and + carried one side of the boat away. It did not sink, for its own cake still + upbore it, but in a whirl they saw dark water show for an instant within a + foot of them. Then all movement ceased. At the end of half an hour the + whole river picked itself up and began to move. This continued for an + hour, when again it was brought to rest by a jam. Once again it started, + running swiftly and savagely, with a great grinding. Then they saw lights + ashore, and, when abreast, gravity and the Yukon surrendered, and the + river ceased for six months. + </p> + <p> + On the shore at Dawson, curious ones, gathered to watch the river freeze, + heard from out of the darkness the war-song of Shorty: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Like Argus of the ancient times, + We leave this Modern Greece; + Tum-tum, tum-tum; tum-tum, tum-tum, + To shear the Golden Fleece.” + </pre> + <p> + For three days Kit and Shorty labored, carrying the ton and a half of + outfit from the middle of the river to the log-cabin Stine and Sprague had + bought on the hill overlooking Dawson. This work finished, in the warm + cabin, as twilight was falling, Sprague motioned Kit to him. Outside the + thermometer registered sixty-five below zero. + </p> + <p> + “Your full month isn't up, Smoke,” Sprague said. “But here it is in full. + I wish you luck.” + </p> + <p> + “How about the agreement?” Kit asked. “You know there's a famine here. A + man can't get work in the mines even, unless he has his own grub. You + agreed—” + </p> + <p> + “I know of no agreement,” Sprague interrupted. “Do you, Stine? We engaged + you by the month. There's your pay. Will you sign the receipt?” + </p> + <p> + Kit's hands clenched, and for the moment he saw red. Both men shrank away + from him. He had never struck a man in anger in his life, and he felt so + certain of his ability to thrash Sprague that he could not bring himself + to do it. + </p> + <p> + Shorty saw his trouble and interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Smoke, I ain't travelin' no more with a ornery outfit like + this. Right here's where I sure jump it. You an' me stick together. Savvy? + Now, you take your blankets an' hike down to the Elkhorn. Wait for me. + I'll settle up, collect what's comin', an' give them what's comin'. I + ain't no good on the water, but my feet's on terry-fermy now an' I'm sure + goin' to make smoke.” + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + Half an hour afterwards Shorty appeared at the Elkhorn. From his bleeding + knuckles and the skin off one cheek, it was evident that he had given + Stine and Sprague what was coming. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to see that cabin,” he chuckled, as they stood at the bar. + “Rough-house ain't no name for it. Dollars to doughnuts nary one of 'em + shows up on the street for a week. An' now it's all figgered out for you + an' me. Grub's a dollar an' a half a pound. They ain't no work for wages + without you have your own grub. Moose-meat's sellin' for two dollars a + pound an' they ain't none. We got enough money for a month's grub an' + ammunition, an' we hike up the Klondike to the back country. If they ain't + no moose, we go an' live with the Indians. But if we ain't got five + thousand pounds of meat six weeks from now, I'll—I'll sure go back + an' apologize to our bosses. Is it a go?” + </p> + <p> + Kit's hand went out, and they shook. Then he faltered. “I don't know + anything about hunting,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Shorty lifted his glass. + </p> + <p> + “But you're a sure meat-eater, an' I'll learn you.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III. THE STAMPEDE TO SQUAW CREEK. + </h2> + <p> + Two months after Smoke Bellew and Shorty went after moose for a + grub-stake, they were back in the Elkhorn saloon at Dawson. The hunting + was done, the meat hauled in and sold for two dollars and a half a pound, + and between them they possessed three thousand dollars in gold dust and a + good team of dogs. They had played in luck. Despite the fact that the + gold-rush had driven the game a hundred miles or more into the mountains, + they had, within half that distance, bagged four moose in a narrow canyon. + </p> + <p> + The mystery of the strayed animals was no greater than the luck of their + killers, for within the day four famished Indian families, reporting no + game in three days' journey back, camped beside them. Meat was traded for + starving dogs, and after a week of feeding, Smoke and Shorty harnessed the + animals and began freighting the meat to the eager Dawson market. + </p> + <p> + The problem of the two men now was to turn their gold-dust into food. The + current price for flour and beans was a dollar and a half a pound, but the + difficulty was to find a seller. Dawson was in the throes of famine. + Hundreds of men, with money but no food, had been compelled to leave the + country. Many had gone down the river on the last water, and many more, + with barely enough food to last, had walked the six hundred miles over the + ice to Dyea. + </p> + <p> + Smoke met Shorty in the warm saloon, and found the latter jubilant. + </p> + <p> + “Life ain't no punkins without whiskey an' sweetenin',” was Shorty's + greeting, as he pulled lumps of ice from his thawing moustache and flung + them rattling on the floor. “An' I sure just got eighteen pounds of that + same sweetenin'. The geezer only charged three dollars a pound for it. + What luck did you have?” + </p> + <p> + “I, too, have not been idle,” Smoke answered with pride. “I bought fifty + pounds of flour. And there's a man up on Adam Creek who says he'll let me + have fifty pounds more to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Great! We'll sure live till the river opens. Say, Smoke, them dogs of + ourn is the goods. A dog-buyer offered me two hundred apiece for the five + of them. I told him nothin' doin'. They sure took on class when they got + meat to get outside of; but it goes against the grain, feedin' + dog-critters on grub that's worth two an' a half a pound. Come on an' have + a drink. I just got to celebrate them eighteen pounds of sweetenin'.” + </p> + <p> + Several minutes later, as he weighed in on the gold-scales for the drinks, + he gave a start of recollection. + </p> + <p> + “I plum forgot that man I was to meet in the Tivoli. He's got some spoiled + bacon he'll sell for a dollar an' a half a pound. We can feed it to the + dogs an' save a dollar a day on each's board-bill. So long.” + </p> + <p> + “So long,” said Smoke. “I'm goin' to the cabin an' turn in.” + </p> + <p> + Hardly had Shorty left the place, when a fur-clad man entered through the + double storm-doors. His face lighted at sight of Smoke, who recognized him + as Breck, the man whose boat they had run through the Box Canyon and White + Horse Rapids. + </p> + <p> + “I heard you were in town,” Breck said hurriedly, as they shook hands. + “Been looking for you for half an hour. Come outside, I want to talk with + you.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke looked regretfully at the roaring, red-hot stove. + </p> + <p> + “Won't this do?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it's important. Come outside.” + </p> + <p> + As they emerged, Smoke drew off one mitten, lighted a match, and glanced + at the thermometer that hung beside the door. He remittened his naked hand + hastily as if the frost had burned him. Overhead arched the flaming aurora + borealis, while from all Dawson arose the mournful howling of thousands of + wolf-dogs. + </p> + <p> + “What did it say?” Breck asked. + </p> + <p> + “Sixty below.” Kit spat experimentally, and the spittle crackled in the + air. “And the thermometer is certainly working. It's falling all the time. + An hour ago it was only fifty-two. Don't tell me it's a stampede.” + </p> + <p> + “It is,” Breck whispered back cautiously, casting anxious eyes about in + fear of some other listener. “You know Squaw Creek?—empties in on + the other side of the Yukon thirty miles up?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing doing there,” was Smoke's judgment. “It was prospected years + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “So were all the other rich creeks. Listen! It's big. Only eight to twenty + feet to bedrock. There won't be a claim that don't run to half a million. + It's a dead secret. Two or three of my close friends let me in on it. I + told my wife right away that I was going to find you before I started. + Now, so long. My pack's hidden down the bank. In fact, when they told me, + they made me promise not to pull out until Dawson was asleep. You know + what it means if you're seen with a stampeding outfit. Get your partner + and follow. You ought to stake fourth or fifth claim from Discovery. Don't + forget—Squaw Creek. It's the third after you pass Swede Creek.” + </p> + <p> + When Smoke entered the little cabin on the hillside back of Dawson, he + heard a heavy familiar breathing. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, go to bed,” Shorty mumbled, as Smoke shook his shoulder. “I'm not on + the night shift,” was his next remark, as the rousing hand became more + vigorous. “Tell your troubles to the barkeeper.” + </p> + <p> + “Kick into your clothes,” Smoke said. “We've got to stake a couple of + claims.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty sat up and started to explode, but Smoke's hand covered his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Ssh!” Smoke warned. “It's a big strike. Don't wake the neighborhood. + Dawson's asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! You got to show me. Nobody tells anybody about a strike, of course + not. But ain't it plum amazin' the way everybody hits the trail just the + same?” + </p> + <p> + “Squaw Creek,” Smoke whispered. “It's right. Breck gave me the tip. + Shallow bedrock. Gold from the grass-roots down. Come on. We'll sling a + couple of light packs together and pull out.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty's eyes closed as he lapsed back into sleep. The next moment his + blankets were swept off him. + </p> + <p> + “If you don't want them, I do,” Smoke explained. + </p> + <p> + Shorty followed the blankets and began to dress. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' to take the dogs?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. The trail up the creek is sure to be unbroken, and we can make better + time without them.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I'll throw 'em a meal, which'll have to last 'em till we get back. + Be sure you take some birch-bark and a candle.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty opened the door, felt the bite of the cold, and shrank back to pull + down his ear-flaps and mitten his hands. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later he returned, sharply rubbing his nose. + </p> + <p> + “Smoke, I'm sure opposed to makin' this stampede. It's colder than the + hinges of hell a thousand years before the first fire was lighted. + Besides, it's Friday the thirteenth, an' we're goin' to trouble as the + sparks fly upward.” + </p> + <p> + With small stampeding-packs on their backs, they closed the door behind + them and started down the hill. The display of the aurora borealis had + ceased, and only the stars leaped in the great cold and by their uncertain + light made traps for the feet. Shorty floundered off a turn of the trail + into deep snow, and raised his voice in blessing of the date of the week + and month and year. + </p> + <p> + “Can't you keep still?” Smoke chided. “Leave the almanac alone. You'll + have all Dawson awake and after us.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! See the light in that cabin? An' in that one over there? An' hear + that door slam? Oh, sure Dawson's asleep. Them lights? Just buryin' their + dead. They ain't stampedin', betcher life they ain't.” + </p> + <p> + By the time they reached the foot of the hill and were fairly in Dawson, + lights were springing up in the cabins, doors were slamming, and from + behind came the sound of many moccasins on the hard-packed snow. Again + Shorty delivered himself. + </p> + <p> + “But it beats hell the amount of mourners there is.” + </p> + <p> + They passed a man who stood by the path and was calling anxiously in a low + voice: “Oh, Charley; get a move on.” + </p> + <p> + “See that pack on his back, Smoke? The graveyard's sure a long ways off + when the mourners got to pack their blankets.” + </p> + <p> + By the time they reached the main street a hundred men were in line behind + them, and while they sought in the deceptive starlight for the trail that + dipped down the bank to the river, more men could be heard arriving. + Shorty slipped and shot down the thirty-foot chute into the soft snow. + Smoke followed, knocking him over as he was rising to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “I found it first,” he gurgled, taking off his mittens to shake the snow + out of the gauntlets. + </p> + <p> + The next moment they were scrambling wildly out of the way of the hurtling + bodies of those that followed. At the time of the freeze-up, a jam had + occurred at this point, and cakes of ice were up-ended in snow-covered + confusion. After several hard falls, Smoke drew out his candle and lighted + it. Those in the rear hailed it with acclaim. In the windless air it + burned easily, and he led the way more quickly. + </p> + <p> + “It's a sure stampede,” Shorty decided. “Or might all them be + sleep-walkers?” + </p> + <p> + “We're at the head of the procession at any rate,” was Smoke's answer. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don't know. Mebbe that's a firefly ahead there. Mebbe they're all + fireflies—that one, an' that one. Look at 'em! Believe me, they is a + whole string of processions ahead.” + </p> + <p> + It was a mile across the jams to the west bank of the Yukon, and candles + flickered the full length of the twisting trail. Behind them, clear to the + top of the bank they had descended, were more candles. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Smoke, this ain't no stampede. It's a exode-us. They must be a + thousand men ahead of us an' ten thousand behind. Now, you listen to your + uncle. My medicine's good. When I get a hunch it's sure right. An' we're + in wrong on this stampede. Let's turn back an' hit the sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “You'd better save your breath if you intend to keep up,” Smoke retorted + gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “Huh! My legs is short, but I slog along slack at the knees an' don't + worry my muscles none, an' I can sure walk every piker here off the ice.” + </p> + <p> + And Smoke knew he was right, for he had long since learned his comrade's + phenomenal walking powers. + </p> + <p> + “I've been holding back to give you a chance,” Smoke jeered. + </p> + <p> + “An' I'm plum troddin' on your heels. If you can't do better, let me go + ahead and set pace.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke quickened, and was soon at the rear of the nearest bunch of + stampeders. + </p> + <p> + “Hike along, you, Smoke,” the other urged. “Walk over them unburied dead. + This ain't no funeral. Hit the frost like you was goin' somewheres.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke counted eight men and two women in this party, and before the way + across the jam-ice was won, he and Shorty had passed another party twenty + strong. Within a few feet of the west bank, the trail swerved to the + south, emerging from the jam upon smooth ice. The ice, however, was buried + under several feet of fine snow. Through this the sled-trail ran, a narrow + ribbon of packed footing barely two feet in width. On either side one sank + to his knees and deeper in the snow. The stampeders they overtook were + reluctant to give way, and often Smoke and Shorty had to plunge into the + deep snow and by supreme efforts flounder past. + </p> + <p> + Shorty was irrepressible and pessimistic. When the stampeders resented + being passed, he retorted in kind. + </p> + <p> + “What's your hurry?” one of them asked. + </p> + <p> + “What's yours?” he answered. “A stampede come down from Indian River + yesterday afternoon an' beat you to it. They ain't no claims left.” + </p> + <p> + “That being so, I repeat, what's your hurry?” + </p> + <p> + “WHO? Me? I ain't no stampeder. I'm workin' for the government. I'm on + official business. I'm just traipsin' along to take the census of Squaw + Creek.” + </p> + <p> + To another, who hailed him with: “Where away, little one? Do you really + expect to stake a claim?” Shorty answered: + </p> + <p> + “Me? I'm the discoverer of Squaw Creek. I'm just comin' back from + recordin' so as to see no blamed chechako jumps my claim.” + </p> + <p> + The average pace of the stampeders on the smooth going was three miles and + a half an hour. Smoke and Shorty were doing four and a half, though + sometimes they broke into short runs and went faster. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to travel your feet clean off, Shorty,” Smoke challenged. + </p> + <p> + “Huh! I can hike along on the stumps an' wear the heels off your + moccasins. Though it ain't no use. I've been figgerin'. Creek claims is + five hundred feet. Call 'em ten to the mile. They's a thousand stampeders + ahead of us, an' that creek ain't no hundred miles long. Somebody's goin' + to get left, an' it makes a noise like you an' me.” + </p> + <p> + Before replying, Smoke let out an unexpected link that threw Shorty half a + dozen feet in the rear. “If you saved your breath and kept up, we'd cut + down a few of that thousand,” he chided. + </p> + <p> + “Who? Me? If you'd get outa the way I'd show you a pace what is.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed, and let out another link. The whole aspect of the adventure + had changed. Through his brain was running a phrase of the mad philosopher—“the + transvaluation of values.” In truth, he was less interested in staking a + fortune than in beating Shorty. After all, he concluded, it wasn't the + reward of the game but the playing of it that counted. Mind, and muscle, + and stamina, and soul, were challenged in a contest with this Shorty, a + man who had never opened the books, and who did not know grand opera from + rag-time, nor an epic from a chilblain. + </p> + <p> + “Shorty, I've got you skinned to death. I've reconstructed every cell in + my body since I hit the beach at Dyea. My flesh is as stringy as + whipcords, and as bitter and mean as the bite of a rattlesnake. A few + months ago I'd have patted myself on the back to write such words, but I + couldn't have written them. I had to live them first, and now that I'm + living them there's no need to write them. I'm the real, bitter, stinging + goods, and no scrub of a mountaineer can put anything over on me without + getting it back compound. Now, you go ahead and set pace for half an hour. + Do your worst, and when you're all in I'll go ahead and give you half an + hour of the real worst.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” Shorty sneered genially. “An' him not dry behind the ears yet. Get + outa the way an' let your father show you some goin'.” + </p> + <p> + Half-hour by half-hour they alternated in setting pace. Nor did they talk + much. Their exertions kept them warm, though their breath froze on their + faces from lips to chin. So intense was the cold that they almost + continually rubbed their noses and cheeks with their mittens. A few + minutes' cessation from this allowed the flesh to grow numb, and then most + vigorous rubbing was required to produce the burning prickle of returning + circulation. + </p> + <p> + Often they thought they had reached the lead, but always they overtook + more stampeders who had started before them. Occasionally, groups of men + attempted to swing in behind to their pace, but invariably they were + discouraged after a mile or two and disappeared in the darkness to the + rear. + </p> + <p> + “We've been out on trail all winter,” was Shorty's comment. “An' them + geezers, soft from layin' around their cabins, has the nerve to think they + can keep our stride. Now, if they was real sour-doughs it'd be different. + If there's one thing a sour-dough can do it's sure walk.” + </p> + <p> + Once, Smoke lighted a match and glanced at his watch. He never repeated + it, for so quick was the bite of the frost on his bared hands that half an + hour passed before they were again comfortable. + </p> + <p> + “Four o'clock,” he said, as he pulled on his mittens, “and we've already + passed three hundred.” + </p> + <p> + “Three hundred and thirty-eight,” Shorty corrected. “I been keepin' count. + Get outa the way, stranger. Let somebody stampede that knows how to + stampede.” + </p> + <p> + The latter was addressed to a man, evidently exhausted, who could no more + than stumble along and who blocked the trail. This, and one other, were + the only played-out men they encountered, for they were very near to the + head of the stampede. Nor did they learn till afterwards the horrors of + that night. Exhausted men sat down to rest by the way and failed to get up + again. Seven were frozen to death, while scores of amputations of toes, + feet, and fingers were performed in the Dawson hospitals on the survivors. + For the stampede to Squaw Creek occurred on the coldest night of the year. + Before morning, the spirit thermometers at Dawson registered seventy + degrees below zero. The men composing the stampede, with few exceptions, + were new-comers in the country who did not know the way of the cold. + </p> + <p> + The other played-out man they found a few minutes later, revealed by a + streamer of aurora borealis that shot like a searchlight from horizon to + zenith. He was sitting on a piece of ice beside the trail. + </p> + <p> + “Hop along, sister Mary,” Shorty gaily greeted him. “Keep movin'. If you + sit there you'll freeze stiff.” + </p> + <p> + The man made no response, and they stopped to investigate. + </p> + <p> + “Stiff as a poker,” was Shorty's verdict. “If you tumbled him over he'd + break.” + </p> + <p> + “See if he's breathing,” Smoke said, as, with bared hand, he sought + through furs and woollens for the man's heart. + </p> + <p> + Shorty lifted one ear-flap and bent to the iced lips. “Nary breathe,” he + reported. + </p> + <p> + “Nor heart-beat,” said Smoke. + </p> + <p> + He mittened his hand and beat it violently for a minute before exposing it + to the frost to strike a match. It was an old man, incontestably dead. In + the moment of illumination, they saw a long grey beard, massed with ice to + the nose, cheeks that were white with frost, and closed eyes with + frost-rimmed lashes frozen together. Then the match went out. + </p> + <p> + “Come on,” Shorty said, rubbing his ear. “We can't do nothin' for the old + geezer. An' I've sure frosted my ear. Now all the blamed skin'll peel off, + and it'll be sore for a week.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, when a flaming ribbon spilled pulsating fire over the + heavens, they saw on the ice a quarter of a mile ahead two forms. Beyond, + for a mile, nothing moved. + </p> + <p> + “They're leading the procession,” Smoke said, as darkness fell again. + “Come on, let's get them.” + </p> + <p> + At the end of half an hour, not yet having overtaken the two in front, + Shorty broke into a run. + </p> + <p> + “If we catch 'em we'll never pass 'em,” he panted. “Lord, what a pace + they're hittin'. Dollars to doughnuts they're no chechakos. They're the + real sour-dough variety, you can stack on that.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was leading when they finally caught up, and he was glad to ease to + a walk at their heels. Almost immediately he got the impression that the + one nearer him was a woman. How this impression came, he could not tell. + Hooded and furred, the dark form was as any form; yet there was a haunting + sense of familiarity about it. He waited for the next flame of the aurora, + and by its light saw the smallness of the moccasined feet. But he saw more—the + walk, and knew it for the unmistakable walk he had once resolved never to + forget. + </p> + <p> + “She's a sure goer,” Shorty confided hoarsely. “I'll bet it's an Indian.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Miss Gastell?” Smoke addressed her. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do,” she answered, with a turn of the head and a quick glance. + “It's too dark to see. Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Smoke.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed in the frost, and he was certain it was the prettiest laughter + he had ever heard. “And have you married and raised all those children you + were telling me about?” Before he could retort, she went on. “How many + chechakos are there behind?” + </p> + <p> + “Several thousand, I imagine. We passed over three hundred. And they + weren't wasting any time.” + </p> + <p> + “It's the old story,” she said bitterly. “The new-comers get in on the + rich creeks, and the old-timers, who dared and suffered and made this + country, get nothing. Old-timers made this discovery on Squaw Creek—how + it leaked out is the mystery—and they sent word up to all the + old-timers on Sea Lion. But it's ten miles farther than Dawson, and when + they arrive they'll find the creek staked to the skyline by the Dawson + chechakos. It isn't right, it isn't fair, such perversity of luck.” + </p> + <p> + “It is too bad,” Smoke sympathized. “But I'm hanged if I know what you're + going to do about it. First come, first served, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could do something,” she flashed back at him. “I'd like to see + them all freeze on the trail, or have everything terrible happen to them, + so long as the Sea Lion stampede arrived first.” + </p> + <p> + “You've certainly got it in for us hard,” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “It isn't that,” she said quickly. “Man by man, I know the crowd from Sea + Lion, and they are men. They starved in this country in the old days, and + they worked like giants to develop it. I went through the hard times on + the Koyukuk with them when I was a little girl. And I was with them in the + Birch Creek famine, and in the Forty Mile famine. They are heroes, and + they deserve some reward, and yet here are thousands of green softlings + who haven't earned the right to stake anything, miles and miles ahead of + them. And now, if you'll forgive my tirade, I'll save my breath, for I + don't know when you and all the rest may try to pass dad and me.” + </p> + <p> + No further talk passed between Joy and Smoke for an hour or so, though he + noticed that for a time she and her father talked in low tones. + </p> + <p> + “I know 'em now,” Shorty told Smoke. “He's old Louis Gastell, an' the real + goods. That must be his kid. He come into this country so long ago they + ain't nobody can recollect, an' he brought the girl with him, she only a + baby. Him an' Beetles was tradin' partners an' they ran the first dinkey + little steamboat up the Koyukuk.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't think we'll try to pass them,” Smoke said. “We're at the head of + the stampede, and there are only four of us.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty agreed, and another hour of silence followed, during which they + swung steadily along. At seven o'clock, the blackness was broken by a last + display of the aurora borealis, which showed to the west a broad opening + between snow-clad mountains. + </p> + <p> + “Squaw Creek!” Joy exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' some,” Shorty exulted. “We oughtn't to been there for another half + hour to the least, accordin' to my reckonin'. I must 'a' been spreadin' my + legs.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this point that the Dyea trail, baffled by ice-jams, swerved + abruptly across the Yukon to the east bank. And here they must leave the + hard-packed, main-travelled trail, mount the jams, and follow a dim trail, + but slightly packed, that hovered the west bank. + </p> + <p> + Louis Gastell, leading, slipped in the darkness on the rough ice, and sat + up, holding his ankle in both his hands. He struggled to his feet and went + on, but at a slower pace and with a perceptible limp. After a few minutes + he abruptly halted. + </p> + <p> + “It's no use,” he said to his daughter. “I've sprained a tendon. You go + ahead and stake for me as well as yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Can't we do something?” Smoke asked solicitously. + </p> + <p> + Louis Gastell shook his head. “She can stake two claims as well as one. + I'll crawl over to the bank, start a fire, and bandage my ankle. I'll be + all right. Go on, Joy. Stake ours above the Discovery claim; it's richer + higher up.” + </p> + <p> + “Here's some birch bark,” Smoke said, dividing his supply equally. “We'll + take care of your daughter.” + </p> + <p> + Louis Gastell laughed harshly. “Thank you just the same,” he said. “But + she can take care of herself. Follow her and watch her.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I lead?” she asked Smoke, as she headed on. “I know this + country better than you.” + </p> + <p> + “Lead on,” Smoke answered gallantly, “though I agree with you it's a + darned shame all us chechakos are going to beat that Sea Lion bunch to it. + Isn't there some way to shake them?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “We can't hide our trail, and they'll follow it like + sheep.” + </p> + <p> + After a quarter of a mile, she turned sharply to the west. Smoke noticed + that they were going through unpacked snow, but neither he nor Shorty + observed that the dim trail they had been on still led south. Had they + witnessed the subsequent procedure of Louis Gastell, the history of the + Klondike would have been written differently; for they would have seen + that old-timer, no longer limping, running with his nose to the trail like + a hound, following them. Also, they would have seen him trample and widen + the turn to the fresh trail they had made to the west. And, finally, they + would have seen him keep on the old dim trail that still led south. + </p> + <p> + A trail did run up the creek, but so slight was it that they continually + lost it in the darkness. After a quarter of an hour, Joy Gastell was + willing to drop into the rear and let the two men take turns in breaking a + way through the snow. This slowness of the leaders enabled the whole + stampede to catch up, and when daylight came, at nine o'clock, as far back + as they could see was an unbroken line of men. Joy's dark eyes sparkled at + the sight. + </p> + <p> + “How long since we started up the creek?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Fully two hours,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “And two hours back make four,” she laughed. “The stampede from Sea Lion + is saved.” + </p> + <p> + A faint suspicion crossed Smoke's mind, and he stopped and confronted her. + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You don't? Then I'll tell you. This is Norway Creek. Squaw Creek is the + next to the south.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was for the moment, speechless. + </p> + <p> + “You did it on purpose?” Shorty demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I did it to give the old-timers a chance.” She laughed mockingly. The men + grinned at each other and finally joined her. “I'd lay you across my knee + an' give you a wallopin', if women folk wasn't so scarce in this country,” + Shorty assured her. + </p> + <p> + “Your father didn't sprain a tendon, but waited till we were out of sight + and then went on?” Smoke asked. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “And you were the decoy?” + </p> + <p> + Again she nodded, and this time Smoke's laughter rang out clear and true. + It was the spontaneous laughter of a frankly beaten man. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you get angry with me?” she queried ruefully. “Or—or + wallop me?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we might as well be starting back,” Shorty urged. “My feet's + gettin' cold standin' here.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head. “That would mean four hours lost. We must be eight + miles up this creek now, and from the look ahead Norway is making a long + swing south. We'll follow it, then cross over the divide somehow, and tap + Squaw Creek somewhere above Discovery.” He looked at Joy. “Won't you come + along with us? I told your father we'd look after you.” + </p> + <p> + “I—” She hesitated. “I think I shall, if you don't mind.” She was + looking straight at him, and her face was no longer defiant and mocking. + “Really, Mr. Smoke, you make me almost sorry for what I have done. But + somebody had to save the old-timers.” + </p> + <p> + “It strikes me that stampeding is at best a sporting proposition.” + </p> + <p> + “And it strikes me you two are very game about it,” she went on, then + added with the shadow of a sigh: “What a pity you are not old-timers!” + </p> + <p> + For two hours more they kept to the frozen creek-bed of Norway, then + turned into a narrow and rugged tributary that flowed from the south. At + midday they began the ascent of the divide itself. Behind them, looking + down and back, they could see the long line of stampeders breaking up. + Here and there, in scores of places, thin smoke-columns advertised the + making of camps. + </p> + <p> + As for themselves, the going was hard. They wallowed through snow to their + waists, and were compelled to stop every few yards to breathe. Shorty was + the first to call a halt. + </p> + <p> + “We been hittin' the trail for over twelve hours,” he said. “Smoke, I'm + plum willin' to say I'm good an' tired. An' so are you. An' I'm free to + shout that I can sure hang on to this here pasear like a starvin' Indian + to a hunk of bear-meat. But this poor girl here can't keep her legs no + time if she don't get something in her stomach. Here's where we build a + fire. What d'ye say?” + </p> + <p> + So quickly, so deftly and methodically, did they go about making a + temporary camp, that Joy, watching with jealous eyes, admitted to herself + that the old-timers could not do it better. Spruce boughs, with a spread + blanket on top, gave a foundation for rest and cooking operations. But + they kept away from the heat of the fire until noses and cheeks had been + rubbed cruelly. + </p> + <p> + Smoke spat in the air, and the resultant crackle was so immediate and loud + that he shook his head. “I give it up,” he said. “I've never seen cold + like this.” + </p> + <p> + “One winter on the Koyukuk it went to eighty-six below,” Joy answered. + “It's at least seventy or seventy-five right now, and I know I've frosted + my cheeks. They're burning like fire.” + </p> + <p> + On the steep slope of the divide there was no ice, so snow, as fine and + hard and crystalline as granulated sugar, was poured into the gold-pan by + the bushel until enough water was melted for the coffee. Smoke fried bacon + and thawed biscuits. Shorty kept the fuel supplied and tended the fire, + and Joy set the simple table composed of two plates, two cups, two spoons, + a tin of mixed salt and pepper, and a tin of sugar. When it came to + eating, she and Smoke shared one set between them. They ate out of the + same plate and drank from the same cup. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly two in the afternoon when they cleared the crest of the + divide and began dropping down a feeder of Squaw Creek. Earlier in the + winter some moose-hunter had made a trail up the canyon—that is, in + going up and down he had stepped always in his previous tracks. As a + result, in the midst of soft snow, and veiled under later snow falls, was + a line of irregular hummocks. If one's foot missed a hummock, he plunged + down through unpacked snow and usually to a fall. Also, the moose-hunter + had been an exceptionally long-legged individual. Joy, who was eager now + that the two men should stake, and fearing that they were slackening their + pace on account of her evident weariness, insisted on taking her turn in + the lead. The speed and manner in which she negotiated the precarious + footing called out Shorty's unqualified approval. + </p> + <p> + “Look at her!” he cried. “She's the real goods an' the red meat. Look at + them moccasins swing along. No high-heels there. She uses the legs God + gave her. She's the right squaw for any bear-hunter.” + </p> + <p> + She flashed back a smile of acknowledgment that included Smoke. He caught + a feeling of chumminess, though at the same time he was bitingly aware + that it was very much of a woman who embraced him in that comradely smile. + </p> + <p> + Looking back, as they came to the bank of Squaw Creek, they could see the + stampede, strung out irregularly, struggling along the descent of the + divide. + </p> + <p> + They slipped down the bank to the creek bed. The stream, frozen solidly to + bottom, was from twenty to thirty feet wide and ran between six- and + eight-foot earth banks of alluvial wash. No recent feet had disturbed the + snow that lay upon its ice, and they knew they were above the Discovery + claim and the last stakes of the Sea Lion stampeders. + </p> + <p> + “Look out for springs,” Joy warned, as Smoke led the way down the creek. + “At seventy below you'll lose your feet if you break through.” + </p> + <p> + These springs, common to most Klondike streams, never cease at the lowest + temperatures. The water flows out from the banks and lies in pools which + are cuddled from the cold by later surface-freezings and snow falls. Thus, + a man, stepping on dry snow, might break through half an inch of ice-skin + and find himself up to the knees in water. In five minutes, unless able to + remove the wet gear, the loss of one's foot was the penalty. + </p> + <p> + Though only three in the afternoon, the long grey twilight of the Arctic + had settled down. They watched for a blazed tree on either bank, which + would show the center-stake of the last claim located. Joy, impulsively + eager, was the first to find it. She darted ahead of Smoke, crying: + “Somebody's been here! See the snow! Look for the blaze! There it is! See + that spruce!” + </p> + <p> + She sank suddenly to her waist in the snow. + </p> + <p> + “Now I've done it,” she said woefully. Then she cried: “Don't come near + me! I'll wade out.” + </p> + <p> + Step by step, each time breaking through the thin skin of ice concealed + under the dry snow, she forced her way to solid footing. Smoke did not + wait, but sprang to the bank, where dry and seasoned twigs and sticks, + lodged amongst the brush by spring freshets, waited the match. By the time + she reached his side, the first flames and flickers of an assured fire + were rising. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down!” he commanded. + </p> + <p> + She obediently sat down in the snow. He slipped his pack from his back, + and spread a blanket for her feet. + </p> + <p> + From above came the voices of the stampeders who followed them. + </p> + <p> + “Let Shorty stake,” she urged. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Shorty,” Smoke said, as he attacked her moccasins, already stiff + with ice. “Pace off a thousand feet and place the two center-stakes. We + can fix the corner-stakes afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + With his knife Smoke cut away the lacings and leather of the moccasins. So + stiff were they with ice that they snapped and crackled under the hacking + and sawing. The Siwash socks and heavy woollen stockings were sheaths of + ice. It was as if her feet and calves were encased in corrugated iron. + </p> + <p> + “How are your feet?” he asked, as he worked. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty numb. I can't move nor feel my toes. But it will be all right. The + fire is burning beautifully. Watch out you don't freeze your own hands. + They must be numb now from the way you're fumbling.” + </p> + <p> + He slipped his mittens on, and for nearly a minute smashed the open hands + savagely against his sides. When he felt the blood-prickles, he pulled off + the mittens and ripped and tore and sawed and hacked at the frozen + garments. The white skin of one foot appeared, then that of the other, to + be exposed to the bite of seventy below zero, which is the equivalent of + one hundred and two below freezing. + </p> + <p> + Then came the rubbing with snow, carried on with an intensity of cruel + fierceness, till she squirmed and shrank and moved her toes, and joyously + complained of the hurt. + </p> + <p> + He half-dragged her, and she half-lifted herself, nearer to the fire. He + placed her feet on the blanket close to the flesh-saving flames. + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to take care of them for a while,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She could now safely remove her mittens and manipulate her own feet, with + the wisdom of the initiated, being watchful that the heat of the fire was + absorbed slowly. While she did this, he attacked his hands. The snow did + not melt nor moisten. Its light crystals were like so much sand. Slowly + the stings and pangs of circulation came back into the chilled flesh. Then + he tended the fire, unstrapped the light pack from her back, and got out a + complete change of foot-gear. + </p> + <p> + Shorty returned along the creek bed and climbed the bank to them. “I sure + staked a full thousan' feet,” he proclaimed. “Number twenty-seven an' + number twenty-eight, though I'd only got the upper stake of twenty-seven, + when I met the first geezer of the bunch behind. He just straight declared + I wasn't goin' to stake twenty-eight. An' I told him—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” Joy cried. “What did you tell him?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I told him straight that if he didn't back up plum five hundred + feet I'd sure punch his frozen nose into ice-cream an' chocolate eclaires. + He backed up, an' I've got in the center-stakes of two full an' honest + five-hundred-foot creek claims. He staked next, and I guess by now the + bunch has Squaw Creek located to head-waters an' down the other side. Ourn + is safe. It's too dark to see now, but we can put out the corner-stakes in + the mornin'.” + </p> + <p> + When they awoke, they found a change had taken place during the night. So + warm was it, that Shorty and Smoke, still in their mutual blankets, + estimated the temperature at no more than twenty below. The cold snap had + broken. On top of their blankets lay six inches of frost crystals. + </p> + <p> + “Good morning! how are your feet?” was Smoke's greeting across the ashes + of the fire to where Joy Gastell, carefully shaking aside the snow, was + sitting up in her sleeping-furs. + </p> + <p> + Shorty built the fire and quarried ice from the creek, while Smoke cooked + breakfast. Daylight came on as they finished the meal. + </p> + <p> + “You go an' fix them corner-stakes, Smoke,” Shorty said. “There's gravel + under where I chopped ice for the coffee, an' I'm goin' to melt water and + wash a pan of that same gravel for luck.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke departed, axe in hand, to blaze the stakes. Starting from the + down-stream center-stake of 'twenty-seven,' he headed at right angles + across the narrow valley towards its rim. He proceeded methodically, + almost automatically, for his mind was alive with recollections of the + night before. He felt, somehow, that he had won to empery over the + delicate lines and firm muscles of those feet and ankles he had rubbed + with snow, and this empery seemed to extend to the rest and all of this + woman of his kind. In dim and fiery ways a feeling of possession mastered + him. It seemed that all that was necessary was for him to walk up to this + Joy Gastell, take her hand in his, and say “Come.” + </p> + <p> + It was in this mood that he discovered something that made him forget + empery over the white feet of woman. At the valley rim he blazed no + corner-stake. He did not reach the valley rim, but, instead, he found + himself confronted by another stream. He lined up with his eye a blasted + willow tree and a big and recognizable spruce. He returned to the stream + where were the center-stakes. He followed the bed of the creek around a + wide horseshoe bend through the flat and found that the two creeks were + the same creek. Next, he floundered twice through the snow from valley rim + to valley rim, running the first line from the lower stake of + 'twenty-seven,' the second from the upper stake of 'twenty-eight,' and he + found that THE UPPER STAKE OF THE LATTER WAS LOWER THAN THE LOWER STAKE OF + THE FORMER. In the gray twilight and half-darkness Shorty had located + their two claims on the horseshoe. + </p> + <p> + Smoke plodded back to the little camp. Shorty, at the end of washing a pan + of gravel, exploded at sight of him. + </p> + <p> + “We got it!” Shorty cried, holding out the pan. “Look at it! A nasty mess + of gold. Two hundred right there if it's a cent. She runs rich from the + top of the wash-gravel. I've churned around placers some, but I never got + butter like what's in this pan.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke cast an incurious glance at the coarse gold, poured himself a cup of + coffee at the fire, and sat down. Joy sensed something wrong and looked at + him with eagerly solicitous eyes. Shorty, however, was disgruntled by his + partner's lack of delight in the discovery. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you kick in an' get excited?” he demanded. “We got our pile + right here, unless you're stickin' up your nose at two-hundred-dollar + pans.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke took a swallow of coffee before replying. “Shorty, why are our two + claims here like the Panama Canal?” + </p> + <p> + “What's the answer?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the eastern entrance of the Panama Canal is west of the western + entrance, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Shorty said. “I ain't seen the joke yet.” + </p> + <p> + “In short, Shorty, you staked our two claims on a big horseshoe bend.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty set the gold pan down in the snow and stood up. “Go on,” he + repeated. + </p> + <p> + “The upper stake of 'twenty-eight' is ten feet below the lower stake of + 'twenty-seven.'” + </p> + <p> + “You mean we ain't got nothin', Smoke?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse than that; we've got ten feet less than nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty departed down the bank on the run. Five minutes later he returned. + In response to Joy's look, he nodded. Without speech, he went over to a + log and sat down to gaze steadily at the snow in front of his moccasins. + </p> + <p> + “We might as well break camp and start back for Dawson,” Smoke said, + beginning to fold the blankets. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry, Smoke,” Joy said. “It's all my fault.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” he answered. “All in the day's work, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's my fault, wholly mine,” she persisted. “Dad's staked for me down + near Discovery, I know. I'll give you my claim.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Shorty,” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + Shorty shook his head and began to laugh. It was a colossal laugh. + Chuckles and muffled explosions yielded to hearty roars. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't hysterics,” he explained. “I sure get powerful amused at times, + an' this is one of them.” + </p> + <p> + His gaze chanced to fall on the gold-pan. He walked over and gravely + kicked it, scattering the gold over the landscape. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't ourn,” he said. “It belongs to the geezer I backed up five + hundred feet last night. An' what gets me is four hundred an' ninety of + them feet was to the good—his good. Come on, Smoke. Let's start the + hike to Dawson. Though if you're hankerin' to kill me I won't lift a + finger to prevent.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV. SHORTY DREAMS. + </h2> + <p> + “Funny you don't gamble none,” Shorty said to Smoke one night in the + Elkhorn. “Ain't it in your blood?” + </p> + <p> + “It is,” Smoke answered. “But the statistics are in my head. I like an + even break for my money.” + </p> + <p> + All about them, in the huge bar-room, arose the click and rattle and + rumble of a dozen games, at which fur-clad, moccasined men tried their + luck. Smoke waved his hand to include them all. + </p> + <p> + “Look at them,” he said. “It's cold mathematics that they will lose more + than they win to-night, that the big proportion are losing right now.” + </p> + <p> + “You're sure strong on figgers,” Shorty murmured admiringly. “An' in the + main you're right. But they's such a thing as facts. An' one fact is + streaks of luck. They's times when every geezer playin' wins, as I know, + for I've sat in such games an' saw more'n one bank busted. The only way to + win at gamblin' is wait for a hunch that you've got a lucky streak comin' + and then play it to the roof.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds simple,” Smoke criticized. “So simple I can't see how men can + lose.” + </p> + <p> + “The trouble is,” Shorty admitted, “that most men gets fooled on their + hunches. On occasion I sure get fooled on mine. The thing is to try an' + find out.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head. “That's a statistic, too, Shorty. Most men prove + wrong on their hunches.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you ever get one of them streaky feelin's that all you got to + do is put your money down an' pick a winner?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed. “I'm too scared of the percentage against me. But I'll tell + you what, Shorty. I'll throw a dollar on the 'high card' right now and see + if it will buy us a drink.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was edging his way in to the faro table, when Shorty caught his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on. I'm gettin' one of them hunches now. You put that dollar on + roulette.” + </p> + <p> + They went over to a roulette table near the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till I give the word,” Shorty counselled. + </p> + <p> + “What number?” Smoke asked. + </p> + <p> + “Pick it yourself. But wait till I say let her go.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to say I've got an even chance on that table?” Smoke + argued. + </p> + <p> + “As good as the next geezer's.” + </p> + <p> + “But not as good as the bank's.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait an' see,” Shorty urged. “Now! Let her go!” + </p> + <p> + The game-keeper had just sent the little ivory ball whirling around the + smooth rim above the revolving, many-slotted wheel. Smoke, at the lower + end of the table, reached over a player, and blindly tossed the dollar. It + slid along the smooth, green cloth and stopped fairly in the center of + “34.” + </p> + <p> + The ball came to rest, and the game-keeper announced, “Thirty-four wins!” + He swept the table, and alongside of Smoke's dollar, stacked thirty-five + dollars. Smoke drew the money in, and Shorty slapped him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Now, that was the real goods of a hunch, Smoke! How'd I know it? There's + no tellin'. I just knew you'd win. Why, if that dollar of yourn'd fell on + any other number it'd won just the same. When the hunch is right, you just + can't help winnin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose it had come 'double naught'?” Smoke queried, as they made their + way to the bar. + </p> + <p> + “Then your dollar'd been on 'double naught,'” was Shorty's answer. “They's + no gettin' away from it. A hunch is a hunch. Here's how. Come on back to + the table. I got a hunch, after pickin' you for a winner, that I can pick + some few numbers myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you playing a system?” Smoke asked, at the end of ten minutes, when + his partner had dropped a hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + Shorty shook his head indignantly, as he spread his chips out in the + vicinities of “3,” “11,” and “17,” and tossed a spare chip on the green. + </p> + <p> + “Hell is sure cluttered with geezers that played systems,” he exposited, + as the keeper raked the table. + </p> + <p> + From idly watching, Smoke became fascinated, following closely every + detail of the game from the whirling of the ball to the making and the + paying of the bets. He made no plays, however, merely contenting himself + with looking on. Yet so interested was he, that Shorty, announcing that he + had had enough, with difficulty drew Smoke away from the table. + </p> + <p> + The game-keeper returned Shorty the gold-sack he had deposited as a + credential for playing, and with it went a slip of paper on which was + scribbled, “Out—$350.00.” Shorty carried the sack and the paper + across the room and handed them to the weigher, who sat behind a large + pair of gold-scales. Out of Shorty's sack he weighed three hundred and + fifty dollars, which he poured into the coffer of the house. + </p> + <p> + “That hunch of yours was another one of those statistics,” Smoke jeered. + </p> + <p> + “I had to play it, didn't I, in order to find out?” Shorty retorted. “I + reckon I was crowdin' some just on account of tryin' to convince you + they's such a thing as hunches.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Shorty,” Smoke laughed. “I've got a hunch right now—” + </p> + <p> + Shorty's eyes sparkled as he cried eagerly: “What is it? Kick in an' play + it pronto.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not that kind, Shorty. Now, what I've got is a hunch that some day + I'll work out a system that will beat the spots off that table.” + </p> + <p> + “System!” Shorty groaned, then surveyed his partner with a vast pity. + “Smoke, listen to your side-kicker an' leave system alone. Systems is sure + losers. They ain't no hunches in systems.” + </p> + <p> + “That's why I like them,” Smoke answered. “A system is statistical. When + you get the right system you can't lose, and that's the difference between + it and a hunch. You never know when the right hunch is going wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “But I know a lot of systems that went wrong, an' I never seen a system + win.” Shorty paused and sighed. “Look here, Smoke, if you're gettin' + cracked on systems this ain't no place for you, an' it's about time we hit + the trail again.” + </p> + <p> + During the several following weeks, the two partners played at cross + purposes. Smoke was bent on spending his time watching the roulette game + in the Elkhorn, while Shorty was equally bent on travelling trail. At last + Smoke put his foot down when a stampede was proposed for two hundred miles + down the Yukon. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Shorty,” he said, “I'm not going. That trip will take ten + days, and before that time I hope to have my system in proper working + order. I could almost win with it now. What are you dragging me around the + country this way for, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “Smoke, I got to take care of you,” was Shorty's reply. “You're gettin' + nutty. I'd drag you stampedin' to Jericho or the North Pole if I could + keep you away from that table.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Shorty. But just remember I've reached full man-grown, + meat-eating size. The only dragging you'll do, will be dragging home the + dust I'm going to win with that system of mine, and you'll most likely + have to do it with a dog-team.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty's response was a groan. + </p> + <p> + “And I don't want you to be bucking any games on your own,” Smoke went on. + “We're going to divide the winnings, and I'll need all our money to get + started. That system's young yet, and it's liable to trip me for a few + falls before I get it lined up.” + </p> + <p> + At last, after long hours and days spent at watching the table, the night + came when Smoke proclaimed he was ready, and Shorty, glum and pessimistic, + with all the seeming of one attending a funeral, accompanied his partner + to the Elkhorn. Smoke bought a stack of chips and stationed himself at the + game-keeper's end of the table. Again and again the ball was whirled, and + the other players won or lost, but Smoke did not venture a chip. Shorty + waxed impatient. + </p> + <p> + “Buck in, buck in,” he urged. “Let's get this funeral over. What's the + matter? Got cold feet?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head and waited. A dozen plays went by, and then, + suddenly, he placed ten one-dollar chips on “26.” The number won, and the + keeper paid Smoke three hundred and fifty dollars. A dozen plays went by, + twenty plays, and thirty, when Smoke placed ten dollars on “32.” Again he + received three hundred and fifty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “It's a hunch!” Shorty whispered vociferously in his ear. “Ride it! Ride + it!” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour went by, during which Smoke was inactive, then he placed ten + dollars on “34” and won. + </p> + <p> + “A hunch!” Shorty whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort,” Smoke whispered back. “It's the system. Isn't she a + dandy?” + </p> + <p> + “You can't tell me,” Shorty contended. “Hunches comes in mighty funny + ways. You might think it's a system, but it ain't. Systems is impossible. + They can't happen. It's a sure hunch you're playin'.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke now altered his play. He bet more frequently, with single chips, + scattered here and there, and he lost more often than he won. + </p> + <p> + “Quit it,” Shorty advised. “Cash in. You've rung the bull's-eye three + times, an' you're ahead a thousand. You can't keep it up.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the ball started whirling, and Smoke dropped ten chips on + “26.” The ball fell into the slot of “26,” and the keeper again paid him + three hundred and fifty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “If you're plum crazy an' got the immortal cinch, bet 'em the limit,” + Shorty said. “Put down twenty-five next time.” + </p> + <p> + A quarter of an hour passed, during which Smoke won and lost on small + scattering bets. Then, with the abruptness that characterized his big + betting, he placed twenty-five dollars on the “double naught,” and the + keeper paid him eight hundred and seventy-five dollars. + </p> + <p> + “Wake me up, Smoke, I'm dreamin',” Shorty moaned. + </p> + <p> + Smoke smiled, consulted his notebook, and became absorbed in calculation. + He continually drew the notebook from his pocket, and from time to time + jotted down figures. + </p> + <p> + A crowd had packed densely around the table, while the players themselves + were attempting to cover the same numbers he covered. It was then that a + change came over his play. Ten times in succession he placed ten dollars + on “18” and lost. At this stage he was deserted by the hardiest. He + changed his number and won another three hundred and fifty dollars. + Immediately the players were back with him, deserting again after a series + of losing bets. + </p> + <p> + “Quit it, Smoke, quit it,” Shorty advised. “The longest string of hunches + is only so long, an' your string's finished. No more bull's-eyes for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to ring her once again before I cash in,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes, with varying luck, he played scattering chips over the + table, and then dropped twenty-five dollars on the “double naught.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll take my slip now,” he said to the dealer, as he won. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don't need to show it to me,” Shorty said, as they walked to the + weigher. “I been keepin' track. You're something like thirty-six hundred + to the good. How near am I?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty-six-sixty,” Smoke replied. “And now you've got to pack the dust + home. That was the agreement.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't crowd your luck,” Shorty pleaded with Smoke, the next night, in the + cabin, as he evidenced preparations to return to the Elkhorn. “You played + a mighty long string of hunches, but you played it out. If you go back + you'll sure drop all your winnings.” + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you it isn't hunches, Shorty. It's statistics. It's a system. + It can't lose.” + </p> + <p> + “System be damned. They ain't no such a thing as system. I made seventeen + straight passes at a crap table once. Was it system? Nope. It was fool + luck, only I had cold feet an' didn't dast let it ride. If it'd rid, + instead of me drawin' down after the third pass, I'd 'a' won over thirty + thousan' on the original two-bit piece.” + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, Shorty, this is a real system.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! You got to show me.” + </p> + <p> + “I did show you. Come on with me now, and I'll show you again.” + </p> + <p> + When they entered the Elkhorn, all eyes centered on Smoke, and those about + the table made way for him as he took up his old place at the keeper's + end. His play was quite unlike that of the previous night. In the course + of an hour and a half he made only four bets, but each bet was for + twenty-five dollars, and each bet won. He cashed in thirty-five hundred + dollars, and Shorty carried the dust home to the cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Now's the time to jump the game,” Shorty advised, as he sat on the edge + of his bunk and took off his moccasins. “You're seven thousan' ahead. A + man's a fool that'd crowd his luck harder.” + </p> + <p> + “Shorty, a man would be a blithering lunatic if he didn't keep on backing + a winning system like mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Smoke, you're a sure bright boy. You're college-learnt. You know more'n a + minute than I could know in forty thousan' years. But just the same you're + dead wrong when you call your luck a system. I've been around some, an' + seen a few, an' I tell you straight an' confidential an' all-assurin', a + system to beat a bankin' game ain't possible.” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm showing you this one. It's a pipe.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you're not, Smoke. It's a pipe-dream. I'm asleep. Bimeby I'll wake + up, an' build the fire, an' start breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my unbelieving friend, there's the dust. Heft it.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Smoke tossed the bulging gold-sack upon his partner's knees. It + weighed thirty-five pounds, and Shorty was fully aware of the crush of its + impact on his flesh. + </p> + <p> + “It's real,” Smoke hammered his point home. + </p> + <p> + “Huh! I've saw some mighty real dreams in my time. In a dream all things + is possible. In real life a system ain't possible. Now, I ain't never been + to college, but I'm plum justified in sizin' up this gamblin' orgy of ourn + as a sure-enough dream.” + </p> + <p> + “Hamilton's 'Law of Parsimony,'” Smoke laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't never heard of the geezer, but his dope's sure right. I'm + dreamin', Smoke, an' you're just snoopin' around in my dream an' + tormentin' me with system. If you love me, if you sure do love me, you'll + just yell, 'Shorty! Wake up!' An' I'll wake up an' start breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + The third night of play, as Smoke laid his first bet, the game-keeper + shoved fifteen dollars back to him. + </p> + <p> + “Ten's all you can play,” he said. “The limit's come down.” + </p> + <p> + “Gettin' picayune,” Shorty sneered. + </p> + <p> + “No one has to play at this table that don't want to,” the keeper + retorted. “And I'm willing to say straight out in meeting that we'd sooner + your pardner didn't play at our table.” + </p> + <p> + “Scared of his system, eh?” Shorty challenged, as the keeper paid over + three hundred and fifty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't saying I believe in system, because I don't. There never was a + system that'd beat roulette or any percentage game. But just the same I've + seen some queer strings of luck, and I ain't going to let this bank go + bust if I can help it.” + </p> + <p> + “Cold feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Gambling is just as much business, my friend, as any other business. We + ain't philanthropists.” + </p> + <p> + Night by night, Smoke continued to win. His method of play varied. Expert + after expert, in the jam about the table, scribbled down his bets and + numbers in vain attempts to work out his system. They complained of their + inability to get a clew to start with, and swore that it was pure luck, + though the most colossal streak of it they had ever seen. + </p> + <p> + It was Smoke's varied play that obfuscated them. Sometimes, consulting his + note-book or engaging in long calculations, an hour elapsed without his + staking a chip. At other times he would win three limit-bets and clean up + a thousand dollars and odd in five or ten minutes. At still other times, + his tactics would be to scatter single chips prodigally and amazingly over + the table. This would continue for from ten to thirty minutes of play, + when, abruptly, as the ball whirled through the last few of its circles, + he would play the limit on column, colour, and number, and win all three. + Once, to complete confusion in the minds of those that strove to divine + his secret, he lost forty straight bets, each at the limit. But each + night, play no matter how diversely, Shorty carried home thirty-five + hundred dollars for him. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't no system,” Shorty expounded at one of their bed-going + discussions. “I follow you, an' follow you, but they ain't no figgerin' it + out. You never play twice the same. All you do is pick winners when you + want to, an' when you don't want to, you just on purpose don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe you're nearer right than you think, Shorty. I've just got to pick + losers sometimes. It's part of the system.” + </p> + <p> + “System—hell! I've talked with every gambler in town, an' the last + one is agreed they ain't no such thing as system.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet I'm showing them one all the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Smoke.” Shorty paused over the candle, in the act of blowing + it out. “I'm real irritated. Maybe you think this is a candle. It ain't. + No, sir! An' this ain't me neither. I'm out on trail somewheres, in my + blankets, lyin' flat on my back with my mouth open, an' dreamin' all this. + That ain't you talkin', any more than this candle is a candle.” + </p> + <p> + “It's funny, how I happen to be dreaming along with you then,” Smoke + persisted. + </p> + <p> + “No, it ain't. You're part of my dream, that's all. I've hearn many a man + talk in my dreams. I want to tell you one thing, Smoke. I'm gettin' mangy + an' mad. If this here dream keeps up much more I'm goin' to bite my veins + an' howl.” + </p> + <p> + On the sixth night of play at the Elkhorn, the limit was reduced to five + dollars. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” Smoke assured the game-keeper. “I want thirty-five + hundred to-night, as usual, and you only compel me to play longer. I've + got to pick twice as many winners, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you buck somebody else's table?” the keeper demanded + wrathfully. + </p> + <p> + “Because I like this one.” Smoke glanced over to the roaring stove only a + few feet away. “Besides, there are no draughts here, and it is warm and + comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + On the ninth night, when Shorty had carried the dust home, he had a fit. + “I quit, Smoke, I quit,” he began. “I know when I got enough. I ain't + dreamin'. I'm wide awake. A system can't be, but you got one just the + same. There's nothin' in the rule o' three. The almanac's clean out. The + world's gone smash. There's nothin' regular an' uniform no more. The + multiplication table's gone loco. Two is eight, nine is eleven, and + two-times-six is eight hundred an' forty-six—an'—an' a half. + Anything is everything, an' nothing's all, an' twice all is cold-cream, + milk-shakes, an' calico horses. You've got a system. Figgers beat the + figgerin'. What ain't is, an' what isn't has to be. The sun rises in the + west, the moon's a pay-streak, the stars is canned corn-beef, scurvy's the + blessin' of God, him that dies kicks again, rocks floats, water's gas, I + ain't me, you're somebody else, an' mebbe we're twins if we ain't + hashed-brown potatoes fried in verdigris. Wake me up! Somebody! Oh! Wake + me up!” + </p> + <p> + The next morning a visitor came to the cabin. Smoke knew him, Harvey + Moran, the owner of all the games in the Tivoli. There was a note of + appeal in his deep gruff voice as he plunged into his business. + </p> + <p> + “It's like this, Smoke,” he began. “You've got us all guessing. I'm + representing nine other game-owners and myself from all the saloons in + town. We don't understand. We know that no system ever worked against + roulette. All the mathematic sharps in the colleges have told us gamblers + the same thing. They say that roulette itself is the system, the one and + only system, and, therefore, that no system can beat it, for that would + mean arithmetic has gone bug-house.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty nodded his head violently. + </p> + <p> + “If a system can beat a system, then there's no such thing as system,” the + gambler went on. “In such a case anything could be possible—a thing + could be in two different places at once, or two things could be in the + same place that's only large enough for one at the same time.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you've seen me play,” Smoke answered defiantly; “and if you think + it's only a string of luck on my part, why worry?” + </p> + <p> + “That's the trouble. We can't help worrying. It's a system you've got, and + all the time we know it can't be. I've watched you five nights now, and + all I can make out is that you favour certain numbers and keep on winning. + Now the ten of us game-owners have got together, and we want to make a + friendly proposition. We'll put a roulette-table in a back room of the + Elkhorn, pool the bank against you, and have you buck us. It will be all + quiet and private. Just you and Shorty and us. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it's the other way around,” Smoke answered. “It's up to you to + come and see me. I'll be playing in the barroom of the Elkhorn to-night. + You can watch me there just as well.” + </p> + <p> + That night, when Smoke took up his customary place at the table, the + keeper shut down the game. “The game's closed,” he said. “Boss's orders.” + </p> + <p> + But the assembled game-owners were not to be balked. In a few minutes they + arranged a pool, each putting in a thousand, and took over the table. + </p> + <p> + “Come on and buck us,” Harvey Moran challenged, as the keeper sent the + ball on its first whirl around. + </p> + <p> + “Give me the twenty-five limit,” Smoke suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Sure; go to it.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke immediately placed twenty-five chips on the “double naught,” and + won. + </p> + <p> + Moran wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Go on,” he said. “We got ten + thousand in this bank.” + </p> + <p> + At the end of an hour and a half, the ten thousand was Smoke's. + </p> + <p> + “The bank's bust,” the keeper announced. + </p> + <p> + “Got enough?” Smoke asked. + </p> + <p> + The game-owners looked at one another. They were awed. They, the fatted + proteges of the laws of chance, were undone. They were up against one who + had more intimate access to those laws, or who had invoked higher and + undreamed laws. + </p> + <p> + “We quit,” Moran said. “Ain't that right, Burke?” + </p> + <p> + Big Burke, who owned the games in the M. and G. Saloon, nodded. “The + impossible has happened,” he said. “This Smoke here has got a system all + right. If we let him go on we'll all bust. All I can see, if we're goin' + to keep our tables running, is to cut down the limit to a dollar, or to + ten cents, or a cent. He won't win much in a night with such stakes.” + </p> + <p> + All looked at Smoke. + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders. “In that case, gentlemen, I'll have to hire a + gang of men to play at all your tables. I can pay them ten dollars for a + four-hour shift and make money.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we'll shut down our tables,” Big Burke replied. “Unless—” He + hesitated and ran his eye over his fellows to see that they were with him. + “Unless you're willing to talk business. What will you sell the system + for?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty thousand dollars,” Smoke answered. “That's a tax of three thousand + apiece.” + </p> + <p> + They debated and nodded. + </p> + <p> + “And you'll tell us your system?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely.” + </p> + <p> + “And you'll promise not to play roulette in Dawson ever again?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” Smoke said positively. “I'll promise not to play this system + again.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” Moran exploded. “You haven't got other systems, have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Hold on!” Shorty cried. “I want to talk to my pardner. Come over here, + Smoke, on the side.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke followed into a quiet corner of the room, while hundreds of curious + eyes centered on him and Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Smoke,” Shorty whispered hoarsely. “Mebbe it ain't a dream. In + which case you're sellin' out almighty cheap. You've sure got the world by + the slack of its pants. They's millions in it. Shake it! Shake it hard!” + </p> + <p> + “But if it's a dream?” Smoke queried softly. + </p> + <p> + “Then, for the sake of the dream an' the love of Mike, stick them gamblers + up good and plenty. What's the good of dreamin' if you can't dream to the + real right, dead sure, eternal finish?” + </p> + <p> + “Fortunately, this isn't a dream, Shorty.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you sell out for thirty thousan', I'll never forgive you.” + </p> + <p> + “When I sell out for thirty thousand, you'll fall on my neck an' wake up + to find out that you haven't been dreaming at all. This is no dream, + Shorty. In about two minutes you'll see you have been wide awake all the + time. Let me tell you that when I sell out it's because I've got to sell + out.” + </p> + <p> + Back at the table, Smoke informed the game-owners that his offer still + held. They proffered him their paper to the extent of three thousand each. + </p> + <p> + “Hold out for the dust,” Shorty cautioned. + </p> + <p> + “I was about to intimate that I'd take the money weighed out,” Smoke said. + </p> + <p> + The owner of the Elkhorn cashed their paper, and Shorty took possession of + the gold-dust. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I don't want to wake up,” he chortled, as he hefted the various + sacks. “Toted up, it's a seventy thousan' dream. It'd be too blamed + expensive to open my eyes, roll out of the blankets, an' start breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “What's your system?” Big Burke demanded. “We've paid for it, and we want + it.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke led the way to the table. “Now, gentlemen, bear with me a moment. + This isn't an ordinary system. It can scarcely be called legitimate, but + its one great virtue is that it works. I've got my suspicious, but I'm not + saying anything. You watch. Mr. Keeper, be ready with the ball. Wait. I am + going to pick '26.' Consider I've bet on it. Be ready, Mr. Keeper—Now!” + </p> + <p> + The ball whirled around. + </p> + <p> + “You observe,” Smoke went on, “that '9' was directly opposite.” + </p> + <p> + The ball finished in “26.” + </p> + <p> + Big Burke swore deep in his chest, and all waited. + </p> + <p> + “For 'double naught' to win, '11' must be opposite. Try it yourself and + see.” + </p> + <p> + “But the system?” Moran demanded impatiently. “We know you can pick + winning numbers, and we know what those numbers are; but how do you do + it?” + </p> + <p> + “By observed sequences. By accident I chanced twice to notice the ball + whirled when '9' was opposite. Both times '26' won. After that I saw it + happen again. Then I looked for other sequences, and found them. 'Double + naught' opposite fetches '32,' and '11' fetches 'double naught.' It + doesn't always happen, but it USUALLY happens. You notice, I say + 'usually.' As I said before, I have my suspicions, but I'm not saying + anything.” + </p> + <p> + Big Burke, with a sudden flash of comprehension reached over, stopped the + wheel, and examined it carefully. The heads of the nine other game-owners + bent over and joined in the examination. Big Burke straightened up and + cast a glance at the near-by stove. + </p> + <p> + “Hell,” he said. “It wasn't any system at all. The table stood close to + the fire, and the blamed wheel's warped. And we've been worked to a + frazzle. No wonder he liked this table. He couldn't have bucked for sour + apples at any other table.” + </p> + <p> + Harvey Moran gave a great sigh of relief and wiped his forehead. “Well, + anyway,” he said, “it's cheap at the price just to find out that it wasn't + a system.” His face began to work, and then he broke into laughter and + slapped Smoke on the shoulder. “Smoke, you had us going for a while, and + we patting ourselves on the back because you were letting our tables + alone! Say, I've got some real fizz I'll open if you'll all come over to + the Tivoli with me.” + </p> + <p> + Later, back in the cabin, Shorty silently overhauled and hefted the + various bulging gold-sacks. He finally piled them on the table, sat down + on the edge of his bunk, and began taking off his moccasins. + </p> + <p> + “Seventy thousan',” he calculated. “It weighs three hundred and fifty + pounds. And all out of a warped wheel an' a quick eye. Smoke, you eat'm + raw, you eat'm alive, you work under water, you've given me the jim-jams; + but just the same I know it's a dream. It's only in dreams that the good + things comes true. I'm almighty unanxious to wake up. I hope I never wake + up.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up,” Smoke answered. “You won't. There are a lot of philosophy + sharps that think men are sleep-walkers. You're in good company.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty got up, went to the table, selected the heaviest sack, and cuddled + it in his arms as if it were a baby. “I may be sleep-walkin',” he said, + “but as you say, I'm sure in mighty good company.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V. THE MAN ON THE OTHER BANK. + </h2> + <p> + It was before Smoke Bellew staked the farcical town-site of Tra-Lee, made + the historic corner of eggs that nearly broke Swiftwater Bill's bank + account, or won the dog-team race down the Yukon for an even million + dollars, that he and Shorty parted company on the Upper Klondike. Shorty's + task was to return down the Klondike to Dawson to record some claims they + had staked. + </p> + <p> + Smoke, with the dog-team, turned south. His quest was Surprise Lake and + the mythical Two Cabins. His traverse was to cut the headwaters of the + Indian River and cross the unknown region over the mountains to the + Stewart River. Here, somewhere, rumour persisted, was Surprise Lake, + surrounded by jagged mountains and glaciers, its bottom paved with raw + gold. Old-timers, it was said, whose very names were forgotten in the + frosts of earlier years, had dived into the icy waters of Surprise Lake + and fetched lump-gold to the surface in both hands. At different times, + parties of old-timers had penetrated the forbidding fastness and sampled + the lake's golden bottom. But the water was too cold. Some died in the + water, being pulled up dead. Others died later of consumption. And one who + had gone down never did come up. All survivors had planned to return and + drain the lake, yet none had ever gone back. Disaster always smote them. + One man fell into an air-hole below Forty Mile; another was killed and + eaten by his dogs; a third was crushed by a falling tree. And so the tale + ran. Surprise Lake was a hoodoo; its location was unremembered; and the + gold still paved its undrained bottom. + </p> + <p> + Two Cabins, no less mythical, was more definitely located. “Five sleeps,” + up the McQuestion River from the Stewart, stood two ancient cabins. So + ancient were they that they must have been built before ever the first + known gold-hunter had entered the Yukon Basin. Wandering moose-hunters, + whom even Smoke had met and talked with, claimed to have found the two + cabins in the old days, but to have sought vainly for the mine which those + early adventurers must have worked. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you was goin' with me,” Shorty said wistfully, at parting. “Just + because you got the Indian bug ain't no reason for to go pokin' into + trouble. They's no gettin' away from it, that's loco country you're bound + for. The hoodoo's sure on it, from the first flip to the last call, + judgin' from all you an' me has hearn tell about it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Shorty,” replied Smoke. “I'll make the round trip and be + back in Dawson in six weeks. The Yukon trail is packed, and the first + hundred miles or so of the Stewart ought to be packed. Old-timers from + Henderson have told me a number of outfits went up last fall after the + freeze-up. When I strike their trail I ought to hit her up forty or fifty + miles a day. I'm likely to be back inside a month, once I get across.” + </p> + <p> + “Yep, once you get acrost. But it's the gettin' acrost that worries me. + Well, so long, Smoke. Keep your eyes open for that hoodoo, that's all. An' + don't be ashamed to turn back if you don't kill any meat.” + </p> + <p> + A week later, Smoke found himself among the jumbled ranges south of Indian + River. On the divide from the Klondike he had abandoned the sled and + packed his wolf-dogs. The six big huskies each carried fifty pounds, and + on his own back was an equal burden. Through the soft snow he led the way, + packing it down under his snow-shoes, and behind, in single file, toiled + the dogs. + </p> + <p> + He loved the life, the deep arctic winter, the silent wilderness, the + unending snow-surface unpressed by the foot of any man. About him towered + icy peaks unnamed and uncharted. No hunter's camp-smoke, rising in the + still air of the valleys, ever caught his eye. He, alone, moved through + the brooding quiet of the untravelled wastes; nor was he oppressed by the + solitude. He loved it all, the day's toil, the bickering wolf-dogs, the + making of the camp in the long twilight, the leaping stars overhead, and + the flaming pageant of the aurora borealis. + </p> + <p> + Especially he loved his camp at the end of the day, and in it he saw a + picture which he ever yearned to paint and which he knew he would never + forget—a beaten place in the snow, where burned his fire; his bed, a + couple of rabbit-skin robes spread on fresh-chopped spruce-boughs; his + shelter, a stretched strip of canvas that caught and threw back the heat + of the fire; the blackened coffee-pot and pail resting on a length of log, + the moccasins propped on sticks to dry, the snow-shoes up-ended in the + snow; and across the fire the wolf-dogs snuggling to it for the warmth, + wistful and eager, furry and frost-rimed, with bushy tails curled + protectingly over their feet; and all about, pressed backward but a space, + the wall of encircling darkness. + </p> + <p> + At such times San Francisco, The Billow, and O'Hara seemed very far away, + lost in a remote past, shadows of dreams that had never happened. He found + it hard to believe that he had known any other life than this of the wild, + and harder still was it for him to reconcile himself to the fact that he + had once dabbled and dawdled in the Bohemian drift of city life. Alone, + with no one to talk to, he thought much, and deeply, and simply. He was + appalled by the wastage of his city years, by the cheapness, now, of the + philosophies of the schools and books, of the clever cynicism of the + studio and editorial room, of the cant of the business men in their clubs. + They knew neither food, nor sleep, nor health; nor could they ever + possibly know the sting of real appetite, the goodly ache of fatigue, nor + the rush of mad strong blood that bit like wine through all one's body as + work was done. + </p> + <p> + And all the time this fine, wise, Spartan Northland had been here, and he + had never known. What puzzled him was, that, with such intrinsic fitness, + he had never heard the slightest calling whisper, had not himself gone + forth to seek. But this, too, he solved in time. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Yellow Face, I've got it clear!” + </p> + <p> + The dog addressed lifted first one forefoot and then the other with quick, + appeasing movements, curled his bush of a tail about them again, and + laughed across the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Herbert Spencer was nearly forty before he caught the vision of his + greatest efficiency and desire. I'm none so slow. I didn't have to wait + till I was thirty to catch mine. Right here is my efficiency and desire. + Almost, Yellow Face, do I wish I had been born a wolf-boy and been brother + all my days to you and yours.” + </p> + <p> + For days he wandered through a chaos of canyons and divides which did not + yield themselves to any rational topographical plan. It was as if they had + been flung there by some cosmic joker. In vain he sought for a creek or + feeder that flowed truly south toward the McQuestion and the Stewart. Then + came a mountain storm that blew a blizzard across the riff-raff of high + and shallow divides. Above timber-line, fireless, for two days, he + struggled blindly to find lower levels. On the second day he came out upon + the rim of an enormous palisade. So thickly drove the snow that he could + not see the base of the wall, nor dared he attempt the descent. He rolled + himself in his robes and huddled the dogs about him in the depths of a + snow-drift, but did not permit himself to sleep. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, the storm spent, he crawled out to investigate. A quarter + of a mile beneath him, beyond all mistake, lay a frozen, snow-covered + lake. About it, on every side, rose jagged peaks. It answered the + description. Blindly, he had found Surprise Lake. + </p> + <p> + “Well named,” he muttered, an hour later, as he came out upon its margin. + A clump of aged spruce was the only woods. On his way to it, he stumbled + upon three graves, snow-buried, but marked by hand-hewn head-posts and + undecipherable writing. On the edge of the woods was a small ramshackle + cabin. He pulled the latch and entered. In a corner, on what had once been + a bed of spruce-boughs, still wrapped in mangy furs that had rotted to + fragments, lay a skeleton. The last visitor to Surprise Lake, was Smoke's + conclusion, as he picked up a lump of gold as large as his doubled fist. + Beside the lump was a pepper-can filled with nuggets of the size of + walnuts, rough-surfaced, showing no signs of wash. + </p> + <p> + So true had the tale run that Smoke accepted without question that the + source of the gold was the lake's bottom. Under many feet of ice and + inaccessible, there was nothing to be done, and at midday, from the rim of + the palisade, he took a farewell look back and down at his find. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Mr. Lake,” he said. “You just keep right on staying + there. I'm coming back to drain you—if that hoodoo doesn't catch me. + I don't know how I got here, but I'll know by the way I go out.” + </p> + <p> + In a little valley, beside a frozen stream and under beneficent spruce + trees, he built a fire four days later. Somewhere in that white anarchy he + had left behind him was Surprise Lake—somewhere, he knew not where; + for a hundred hours of driftage and struggle through blinding, driving + snow had concealed his course from him, and he knew not in what direction + lay BEHIND. It was as if he had just emerged from a nightmare. He was not + sure whether four days or a week had passed. He had slept with the dogs, + fought across a forgotten number of shallow divides, followed the windings + of weird canyons that ended in pockets, and twice had managed to make a + fire and thaw out frozen moose-meat. And here he was, well-fed and + well-camped. The storm had passed, and it had turned clear and cold. The + lay of the land had again become rational. The creek he was on was natural + in appearance, and tended as it should toward the southwest. But Surprise + Lake was as lost to him as it had been to all its seekers in the past. + </p> + <p> + Half a day's journey down the creek brought him to the valley of a larger + stream which he decided was the McQuestion. Here he shot a moose, and once + again each wolf-dog carried a full fifty-pound pack of meat. As he turned + down the McQuestion, he came upon a sled-trail. The late snows had drifted + over, but underneath, it was well packed by travel. His conclusion was + that two camps had been established on the McQuestion, and that this was + the connecting trail. Evidently, Two Cabins had been found, and it was the + lower camp, so he headed down the stream. + </p> + <p> + It was forty below zero when he camped that night, and he fell asleep + wondering who were the men who had rediscovered the Two Cabins, and if he + would fetch it next day. At the first hint of dawn he was under way, + easily following the half-obliterated trail and packing the recent snow + with his webbed shoes so that the dogs should not wallow. + </p> + <p> + And then it came, the unexpected, leaping out upon him on a bend of the + river. It seemed to him that he heard and felt simultaneously. The crack + of the rifle came from the right, and the bullet, tearing through and + across the shoulders of his drill parka and woollen coat, pivoted him half + around with the shock of its impact. He staggered on his twisted + snow-shoes to recover balance, and heard a second crack of the rifle. This + time it was a clean miss. He did not wait for more, but plunged across the + snow for the sheltering trees of the bank a hundred feet away. Again and + again the rifle cracked, and he was unpleasantly aware of a trickle of + warm moisture down his back. + </p> + <p> + He climbed the bank, the dogs floundering behind, and dodged in among the + trees and brush. Slipping out of his snow-shoes, he wallowed forward at + full length and peered cautiously out. Nothing was to be seen. Whoever had + shot at him was lying quiet among the trees of the opposite bank. + </p> + <p> + “If something doesn't happen pretty soon,” he muttered at the end of half + an hour, “I'll have to sneak away and build a fire or freeze my feet. + Yellow Face, what'd you do, lying in the frost with circulation getting + slack and a man trying to plug you?” + </p> + <p> + He crawled back a few yards, packed down the snow, danced a jig that sent + the blood back into his feet, and managed to endure another half hour. + Then, from down the river, he heard the unmistakable jingle of dog-bells. + Peering out, he saw a sled round the bend. Only one man was with it, + straining at the gee-pole and urging the dogs along. The effect on Smoke + was one of shock, for it was the first human he had seen since he parted + from Shorty three weeks before. His next thought was of the potential + murderer concealed on the opposite bank. + </p> + <p> + Without exposing himself, Smoke whistled warningly. The man did not hear, + and came on rapidly. Again, and more sharply, Smoke whistled. The man + whoa'd his dogs, stopped, and had turned and faced Smoke when the rifle + cracked. The instant afterwards, Smoke fired into the wood in the + direction of the sound. The man on the river had been struck by the first + shot. The shock of the high velocity bullet staggered him. He stumbled + awkwardly to the sled, half-falling, and pulled a rifle out from under the + lashings. As he strove to raise it to his shoulder, he crumpled at the + waist and sank down slowly to a sitting posture on the sled. Then, + abruptly, as the gun went off aimlessly, he pitched backward and across a + corner of the sled-load, so that Smoke could see only his legs and + stomach. + </p> + <p> + From below came more jingling bells. The man did not move. Around the bend + swung three sleds, accompanied by half a dozen men. Smoke cried warningly, + but they had seen the condition of the first sled, and they dashed on to + it. No shots came from the other bank, and Smoke, calling his dogs to + follow, emerged into the open. There were exclamations from the men, and + two of them, flinging off the mittens of their right hands, levelled their + rifles at him. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you red-handed murderer, you,” one of them, a black-bearded man, + commanded. “An' jest pitch that gun of yourn in the snow.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke hesitated, then dropped his rifle and came up to them. + </p> + <p> + “Go through him, Louis, an' take his weapons,” the black-bearded man + ordered. + </p> + <p> + Louis was a French-Canadian voyageur, Smoke decided, as were four of the + others. His search revealed only Smoke's hunting knife, which was + appropriated. + </p> + <p> + “Now, what have you got to say for yourself, stranger, before I shoot you + dead?” the black-bearded man demanded. + </p> + <p> + “That you're making a mistake if you think I killed that man,” Smoke + answered. + </p> + <p> + A cry came from one of the voyageurs. He had quested along the trail and + found Smoke's tracks where he had left it to take refuge on the bank. The + man explained the nature of his find. + </p> + <p> + “What'd you kill Joe Kinade for?” he of the black beard asked. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I didn't—” Smoke began. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, what's the good of talkin'? We got you red-handed. Right up there's + where you left the trail when you heard him comin'. You laid among the + trees an' bushwhacked him. A short shot. You couldn't 'a' missed. Pierre, + go an' get that gun he dropped.” + </p> + <p> + “You might let me tell what happened,” Smoke objected. + </p> + <p> + “You shut up,” the man snarled at him. “I reckon your gun'll tell the + story.” + </p> + <p> + All the men examined Smoke's rifle, ejecting and counting the cartridges, + and examining the barrel at muzzle and breech. + </p> + <p> + “One shot,” Blackbeard concluded. + </p> + <p> + Pierre, with nostrils that quivered and distended like a deer's, sniffed + at the breech. + </p> + <p> + “Him one fresh shot,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The bullet entered his back,” Smoke said. “He was facing me when he was + shot. You see, it came from the other bank.” + </p> + <p> + Blackbeard considered this proposition for a scant second, and shook his + head. “Nope. It won't do. Turn him around to face the other bank—that's + how you whopped him in the back. Some of you boys run up an' down the + trail, and see if you can see any tracks making for the other bank.” + </p> + <p> + Their report was that on that side the snow was unbroken. Not even a + snow-shoe rabbit had crossed it. Blackbeard, bending over the dead man, + straightened up, with a woolly, furry wad in his hand. Shredding this, he + found imbedded in the center the bullet which had perforated the body. Its + nose was spread to the size of a half dollar, its butt-end, + steel-jacketed, was undamaged. He compared it with a cartridge from + Smoke's belt. + </p> + <p> + “That's plain enough evidence, stranger, to satisfy a blind man. It's + soft-nosed an' steel-jacketed; yourn is soft-nosed and steel-jacketed. + It's thirty-thirty; yourn is thirty-thirty. It's manufactured by the J. + and T. Arms Company; yourn is manufactured by the J. and T. Arms Company. + Now you come along, an' we'll go over to the bank an' see jest how you + done it.” + </p> + <p> + “I was bushwhacked myself,” Smoke said. “Look at the hole in my parka.” + </p> + <p> + While Blackbeard examined it, one of the voyageurs threw open the breech + of the dead man's gun. It was patent to all that it had been fired once. + The empty cartridge was still in the chamber. + </p> + <p> + “A damn shame poor Joe didn't get you,” Blackbeard said bitterly. “But he + did pretty well with a hole like that in him. Come on, you.” + </p> + <p> + “Search the other bank first,” Smoke urged. + </p> + <p> + “You shut up an' come on, an' let the facts do the talkin'.” + </p> + <p> + They left the trail at the same spot he had, and followed it on up the + bank and then in among the trees. + </p> + <p> + “Him dance that place keep him feet warm,” Louis pointed out. “That place + him crawl on belly. That place him put one elbow w'en him shoot.” + </p> + <p> + “And by God there's the empty cartridge he done it with!” was Blackbeard's + discovery. “Boys, there's only one thing to do—” + </p> + <p> + “You might ask me how I came to fire that shot,” Smoke interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “An' I might knock your teeth into your gullet if you butt in again. You + can answer them questions later on. Now, boys, we're decent an' + law-abidin', an' we got to handle this right an' regular. How far do you + reckon we've come, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty mile, I t'ink for sure.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. We'll cache the outfit an' run him an' poor Joe back to Two + Cabins. I reckon we've seen an' can testify to what'll stretch his neck.” + </p> + <p> + It was three hours after dark when the dead man, Smoke, and his captors + arrived at Two Cabins. By the starlight, Smoke could make out a dozen or + more recently built cabins snuggling about a larger and older cabin on a + flat by the river bank. Thrust inside this older cabin, he found it + tenanted by a young giant of a man, his wife, and an old blind man. The + woman, whom her husband called “Lucy,” was herself a strapping creature of + the frontier type. The old man, as Smoke learned afterwards, had been a + trapper on the Stewart for years, and had gone finally blind the winter + before. The camp of Two Cabins, he was also to learn, had been made the + previous fall by a dozen men who arrived in half as many poling-boats + loaded with provisions. Here they had found the blind trapper, on the site + of Two Cabins, and about his cabin they had built their own. Later + arrivals, mushing up the ice with dog teams, had tripled the population. + There was plenty of meat in camp, and good low-pay dirt had been + discovered and was being worked. + </p> + <p> + In five minutes, all the men of Two Cabins were jammed into the room. + Smoke, shoved off into a corner, ignored and scowled at, his hands and + feet tied with thongs of moose-hide, looked on. Thirty-eight men he + counted, a wild and husky crew, all frontiersmen of the States or + voyageurs from Upper Canada. His captors told the tale over and over, each + the center of an excited and wrathful group. There were mutterings of: + “Lynch him now! Why wait?” And, once, a big Irishman was restrained only + by force from rushing upon the helpless prisoner and giving him a beating. + </p> + <p> + It was while counting the men that Smoke caught sight of a familiar face. + It was Breck, the man whose boat Smoke had run through the rapids. He + wondered why the other did not come and speak to him, but himself gave no + sign of recognition. Later, when with shielded face Breck passed him a + significant wink, Smoke understood. + </p> + <p> + Blackbeard, whom Smoke heard called Eli Harding, ended the discussion as + to whether or not the prisoner should be immediately lynched. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on,” Harding roared. “Keep your shirts on. That man belongs to me. I + caught him an' I brought him here. D'ye think I brought him all the way + here to be lynched? Not on your life. I could 'a' done that myself when I + found him. I brought him here for a fair an' impartial trial, an' by God, + a fair an' impartial trial he's goin' to get. He's tied up safe an' sound. + Chuck him in a bunk till morning, an' we'll hold the trial right here.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke woke up. A draught that possessed all the rigidity of an icicle was + boring into the front of his shoulders as he lay on his side facing the + wall. When he had been tied into the bunk there had been no such draught, + and now the outside air, driving into the heated atmosphere of the cabin + with the pressure of fifty below zero, was sufficient advertizement that + some one from without had pulled away the moss-chinking between the logs. + He squirmed as far as his bonds would permit, then craned his neck forward + until his lips just managed to reach the crack. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Breck,” came the almost inaudible answer. “Be careful you don't make a + noise. I'm going to pass a knife in to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No good,” Smoke said. “I couldn't use it. My hands are tied behind me and + made fast to the leg of the bunk. Besides, you couldn't get a knife + through that crack. But something must be done. Those fellows are of a + temper to hang me, and, of course, you know I didn't kill that man.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't necessary to mention it, Smoke. And if you did you had your + reasons. Which isn't the point at all. I want to get you out of this. It's + a tough bunch of men here. You've seen them. They're shut off from the + world, and they make and enforce their own law—by miner's meeting, + you know. They handled two men already—both grub-thieves. One they + hiked from camp without an ounce of grub and no matches. He made about + forty miles and lasted a couple of days before he froze stiff. Two weeks + ago they hiked the second man. They gave him his choice: no grub, or ten + lashes for each day's ration. He stood for forty lashes before he fainted. + And now they've got you, and every last one is convinced you killed + Kinade.” + </p> + <p> + “The man who killed Kinade shot at me, too. His bullet broke the skin on + my shoulder. Get them to delay the trial till some one goes up and + searches the bank where the murderer hid.” + </p> + <p> + “No use. They take the evidence of Harding and the five Frenchmen with + him. Besides, they haven't had a hanging yet, and they're keen for it. You + see, things have been pretty monotonous. They haven't located anything + big, and they got tired of hunting for Surprise Lake. They did some + stampeding the first part of the winter, but they've got over that now. + Scurvy is beginning to show up amongst them, too, and they're just ripe + for excitement.” + </p> + <p> + “And it looks like I'll furnish it,” was Smoke's comment. “Say, Breck, how + did you ever fall in with such a God-forsaken bunch?” + </p> + <p> + “After I got the claims at Squaw Creek opened up and some men to working, + I came up here by way of the Stewart, hunting for Two Cabins. They'd + beaten me to it, so I've been higher up the Stewart. Just got back + yesterday out of grub.” + </p> + <p> + “Find anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing much. But I think I've got a hydraulic proposition that'll work + big when the country's opened up. It's that, or a gold-dredger.” + </p> + <p> + “Hold on,” Smoke interrupted. “Wait a minute. Let me think.” + </p> + <p> + He was very much aware of the snores of the sleepers as he pursued the + idea that had flashed into his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Breck, have they opened up the meat-packs my dogs carried?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “A couple. I was watching. They put them in Harding's cache.” + </p> + <p> + “Did they find anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Meat.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. You've got to get into the brown-canvas pack that's patched with + moose-hide. You'll find a few pounds of lumpy gold. You've never seen gold + like it in the country, nor has anybody else. Here's what you've got to + do. Listen.” + </p> + <p> + A quarter of an hour later, fully instructed and complaining that his toes + were freezing, Breck went away. Smoke, his own nose and one cheek frosted + by proximity to the chink, rubbed them against the blankets for half an + hour before the blaze and bite of the returning blood assured him of the + safety of his flesh. + </p> + <p> + “My mind's made up right now. There ain't no doubt but what he killed + Kinade. We heard the whole thing last night. What's the good of goin' over + it again? I vote guilty.” + </p> + <p> + In such fashion, Smoke's trial began. The speaker, a loose-jointed, + hard-rock man from Colorado, manifested irritation and disgust when + Harding set his suggestion aside, demanded the proceedings should be + regular, and nominated one Shunk Wilson for judge and chairman of the + meeting. The population of Two Cabins constituted the jury, though, after + some discussion, the woman, Lucy, was denied the right to vote on Smoke's + guilt or innocence. + </p> + <p> + While this was going on, Smoke, jammed into a corner on a bunk, overheard + a whispered conversation between Breck and a miner. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't fifty pounds of flour you'll sell?” Breck queried. + </p> + <p> + “You ain't got the dust to pay the price I'm askin',” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “I'll give you two hundred.” + </p> + <p> + The man shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Three hundred. Three-fifty.” + </p> + <p> + At four hundred, the man nodded, and said, “Come on over to my cabin an' + weigh out the dust.” + </p> + <p> + The two squeezed their way to the door, and slipped out. After a few + minutes Breck returned alone. + </p> + <p> + Harding was testifying, when Smoke saw the door shoved open slightly, and + in the crack appear the face of the man who had sold the flour. He was + grimacing and beckoning emphatically to some one inside, who arose from + near the stove and started to work toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you goin', Sam?” Shunk Wilson demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I'll be back in a jiffy,” Sam explained. “I jes' got to go.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was permitted to question the witnesses, and he was in the middle of + the cross-examination of Harding when from without came the whining of + dogs in harness, and the grind and churn of sled-runners. Somebody near + the door peeped out. + </p> + <p> + “It's Sam an' his pardner an' a dog-team hell-bent down the trail for + Stewart River,” the man reported. + </p> + <p> + Nobody spoke for a long half-minute, but men glanced significantly at one + another, and a general restlessness pervaded the packed room. Out of the + corner of his eye, Smoke caught a glimpse of Breck, Lucy, and her husband + whispering together. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you,” Shunk Wilson said gruffly to Smoke. “Cut this questionin' + short. We know what you're tryin' to prove—that the other bank + wa'n't searched. The witness admits it. We admit it. It wa'n't necessary. + No tracks led to that bank. The snow wa'n't broke.” + </p> + <p> + “There was a man on the other bank just the same,” Smoke insisted. + </p> + <p> + “That's too thin for skatin', young man. There ain't many of us on the + McQuestion, an' we got every man accounted for.” + </p> + <p> + “Who was the man you hiked out of camp two weeks ago?” Smoke asked. + </p> + <p> + “Alonzo Miramar. He was a Mexican. What's that grub-thief got to do with + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, except that you haven't accounted for HIM, Mr. Judge.” + </p> + <p> + “He went down the river, not up.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know where he went?” + </p> + <p> + “Saw him start.” + </p> + <p> + “And that's all you know of what became of him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it ain't, young man. I know, we all know, he had four days' grub an' + no gun to shoot meat with. If he didn't make the settlement on the Yukon + he'd croaked long before this.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you've got all the guns in this part of the country accounted + for, too,” Smoke observed pointedly. + </p> + <p> + Shunk Wilson was angry. “You'd think I was the prisoner the way you slam + questions into me. Now then, come on with the next witness. Where's French + Louis?” + </p> + <p> + While French Louis was shoving forward, Lucy opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where you goin'?” Shunk Wilson shouted. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I don't have to stay,” she answered defiantly. “I ain't got no + vote, an' besides, my cabin's so jammed up I can't breathe.” + </p> + <p> + In a few minutes her husband followed. The closing of the door was the + first warning the judge received of it. + </p> + <p> + “Who was that?” he interrupted Pierre's narrative to ask. + </p> + <p> + “Bill Peabody,” somebody spoke up. “Said he wanted to ask his wife + something and was coming right back.” + </p> + <p> + Instead of Bill, it was Lucy who re-entered, took off her furs, and + resumed her place by the stove. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon we don't need to hear the rest of the witnesses,” was Shunk + Wilson's decision, when Pierre had finished. “We already know they only + can testify to the same facts we've already heard. Say, Sorensen, you go + an' bring Bill Peabody back. We'll be votin' a verdict pretty short. Now, + stranger, you can get up an' say your say concernin' what happened. In the + meantime, we'll just be savin' delay by passin' around the two rifles, the + ammunition, an' the bullet that done the killin'.” + </p> + <p> + Midway in his story of how he had arrived in that part of the country, and + at the point in his narrative where he described his own ambush and how he + had fled to the bank, Smoke was interrupted by the indignant Shunk Wilson. + </p> + <p> + “Young man, what sense is there in you testifyin' that way? You're just + takin' up valuable time. Of course you got the right to lie to save your + neck, but we ain't goin' to stand for such foolishness. The rifle, the + ammunition, an' the bullet that killed Joe Kinade is against you. What's + that? Open the door, somebody!” + </p> + <p> + The frost rushed in, taking form and substance in the heat of the room, + while through the open door came the whining of dogs that decreased + rapidly with distance. + </p> + <p> + “It's Sorensen an' Peabody,” some one cried, “a-throwin' the whip into the + dawgs an' headin' down river!” + </p> + <p> + “Now, what the hell—!” Shunk Wilson paused, with dropped jaw, and + glared at Lucy. “I reckon you can explain, Mrs. Peabody.” + </p> + <p> + She tossed her head and compressed her lips, and Shunk Wilson's wrathful + and suspicious gaze passed on and rested on Breck. + </p> + <p> + “An' I reckon that newcomer you've been chinning with could explain if HE + had a mind to.” + </p> + <p> + Breck, now very uncomfortable, found all eyes centered on him. + </p> + <p> + “Sam was chewing the rag with him, too, before he hit out,” some one said. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Mr. Breck,” Shunk Wilson continued. “You've been interruptin' + proceedings, and you got to explain the meanin' of it. What was you + chinnin' about?” + </p> + <p> + Breck cleared his throat timidly and replied. “I was just trying to buy + some grub.” + </p> + <p> + “What with?” + </p> + <p> + “Dust, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Where'd you get it?” + </p> + <p> + Breck did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “He's been snoopin' around up the Stewart,” a man volunteered. “I run + across his camp a week ago when I was huntin'. An' I want to tell you he + was almighty secretious about it.” + </p> + <p> + “The dust didn't come from there,” Breck said. “That's only a low-grade + hydraulic proposition.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring your poke here an' let's see your dust,” Wilson commanded. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you it didn't come from there.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see it, just the same.” + </p> + <p> + Breck made as if to refuse, but all about him were menacing faces. + Reluctantly, he fumbled in his coat pocket. In the act of drawing forth a + pepper-can, it rattled against what was evidently a hard object. + </p> + <p> + “Fetch it all out!” Shunk Wilson thundered. + </p> + <p> + And out came the big nugget, fist-size, yellow as no gold any onlooker had + ever seen. Shunk Wilson gasped. Half a dozen, catching one glimpse, made a + break for the door. They reached it at the same moment, and, with cursing + and scuffling, jammed and pivoted through. The judge emptied the contents + of the pepper-can on the table, and the sight of the rough lump-gold sent + half a dozen more toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you goin'?” Eli Harding asked, as Shunk started to follow. + </p> + <p> + “For my dogs, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't you goin' to hang him?” + </p> + <p> + “It'd take too much time right now. He'll keep till we get back, so I + reckon this court is adjourned. This ain't no place for lingerin'.” + </p> + <p> + Harding hesitated. He glanced savagely at Smoke, saw Pierre beckoning to + Louis from the doorway, took one last look at the lump-gold on the table, + and decided. + </p> + <p> + “No use you tryin' to get away,” he flung back over his shoulder. + “Besides, I'm goin' to borrow your dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?—another one of them blamed stampedes?” the old blind + trapper asked in a queer and petulant falsetto, as the cries of men and + dogs and the grind of the sleds swept the silence of the room. + </p> + <p> + “It sure is,” Lucy answered. “An' I never seen gold like it. Feel that, + old man.” + </p> + <p> + She put the big nugget in his hand. He was but slightly interested. + </p> + <p> + “It was a good fur-country,” he complained, “before them danged miners + come in an' scared back the game.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and Breck entered. “Well,” he said, “we four are all that + are left in camp. It's forty miles to the Stewart by the cut-off I broke, + and the fastest of them can't make the round trip in less than five or six + days. But it's time you pulled out, Smoke, just the same.” + </p> + <p> + Breck drew his hunting-knife across the other's bonds, and glanced at the + woman. “I hope you don't object?” he said, with significant politeness. + </p> + <p> + “If there's goin' to be any shootin',” the blind man broke out, “I wish + somebody'd take me to another cabin first.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, an' don't mind me,” Lucy answered. “If I ain't good enough to hang + a man, I ain't good enough to hold him.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke stood up, rubbing his wrists where the thongs had impeded the + circulation. + </p> + <p> + “I've got a pack all ready for you,” Breck said. “Ten days' grub, + blankets, matches, tobacco, an axe, and a rifle.” + </p> + <p> + “Go to it,” Lucy encouraged. “Hit the high places, stranger. Beat it as + fast as God'll let you.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to have a square meal before I start,” Smoke said. “And when I + start it will be up the McQuestion, not down. I want you to go along with + me, Breck. We're going to search that other bank for the man that really + did the killing.” + </p> + <p> + “If you'll listen to me, you'll head down for the Stewart and the Yukon,” + Breck objected. “When this gang gets back from my low-grade hydraulic + proposition, it will be seeing red.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I can't jump this country, Breck. I've got interests here. I've got to + stay and make good. I don't care whether you believe me or not, but I've + found Surprise Lake. That's where that gold came from. Besides, they took + my dogs, and I've got to wait to get them back. Also, I know what I'm + about. There was a man hidden on that bank. He came pretty close to + emptying his magazine at me.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour afterward, with a big plate of moose-steak before him and a + big mug of coffee at his lips, Smoke half-started up from his seat. He had + heard the sounds first. Lucy threw open the door. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Spike; hello, Methody,” she greeted the two frost-rimed men who + were bending over the burden on their sled. + </p> + <p> + “We just come down from Upper Camp,” one said, as the pair staggered into + the room with a fur-wrapped object which they handled with exceeding + gentleness. “An' this is what we found by the way. He's all in, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Put him in the near bunk there,” Lucy said. She bent over and pulled back + the furs, disclosing a face composed principally of large, staring, black + eyes, and of skin, dark and scabbed by repeated frost-bite, tightly + stretched across the bones. + </p> + <p> + “If it ain't Alonzo!” she cried. “You pore, starved devil!” + </p> + <p> + “That's the man on the other bank,” Smoke said in an undertone to Breck. + </p> + <p> + “We found it raidin' a cache that Harding must 'a' made,” one of the men + was explaining. “He was eatin' raw flour an' frozen bacon, an' when we got + 'm he was cryin' an' squealin' like a hawg. Look at him! He's all starved, + an' most of him frozen. He'll kick at any moment.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later, when the furs had been drawn over the face of the + still form in the bunk, Smoke turned to Lucy. “If you don't mind, Mrs. + Peabody, I'll have another whack at that steak. Make it thick and not so + well done. I'm a meat-eater, I am.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI. THE RACE FOR NUMBER THREE. + </h2> + <p> + “Huh! Get on to the glad rags!” + </p> + <p> + Shorty surveyed his partner with simulated disapproval, and Smoke, vainly + attempting to rub the wrinkles out of the pair of trousers he had just put + on, was irritated. + </p> + <p> + “They sure fit you close for a second-hand buy,” Shorty went on. “What was + the tax?” + </p> + <p> + “One hundred and fifty for the suit,” Smoke answered. “The man was nearly + my own size. I thought it was remarkably reasonable. What are you kicking + about?” + </p> + <p> + “Who? Me? Oh, nothin'. I was just thinkin' it was goin' some for a + meat-eater that hit Dawson in an ice-jam, with no grub, one suit of + underclothes, a pair of mangy moccasins, an' overalls that looked like + they'd been through the wreck of the Hesperus. Pretty gay front, pardner. + Pretty gay front. Say—?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want now?” Smoke demanded testily. + </p> + <p> + “What's her name?” + </p> + <p> + “There isn't any her, my friend. I'm to have dinner at Colonel Bowie's, if + you want to know. The trouble with you, Shorty, is you're envious because + I'm going into high society and you're not invited.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't you some late?” Shorty queried with concern. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “For dinner. They'll be eatin' supper when you get there.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was about to explain with crudely elaborate sarcasm when he caught + the twinkle in the other's eye. He went on dressing, with fingers that had + lost their deftness, tying a Windsor tie in a bow-knot at the throat of + his soft cotton shirt. + </p> + <p> + “Wisht I hadn't sent all my starched shirts to the laundry,” Shorty + murmured sympathetically. “I might 'a' fitted you out.” + </p> + <p> + By this time Smoke was straining at a pair of shoes. The woollen socks + were too thick to go into them. He looked appealingly at Shorty, who shook + his head. + </p> + <p> + “Nope. If I had thin ones I wouldn't lend 'em to you. Back to the + moccasins, pardner. You'd sure freeze your toes in skimpy-fangled gear + like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I paid fifteen dollars for them, second hand,” Smoke lamented. + </p> + <p> + “I reckon they won't be a man not in moccasins.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are to be women, Shorty. I'm going to sit down and eat with + real live women—Mrs. Bowie, and several others, so the Colonel told + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, moccasins won't spoil their appetite none,” was Shorty's comment. + “Wonder what the Colonel wants with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, unless he's heard about my finding Surprise Lake. It will + take a fortune to drain it, and the Guggenheims are out for investment.” + </p> + <p> + “Reckon that's it. That's right, stick to the moccasins. Gee! That coat is + sure wrinkled, an' it fits you a mite too swift. Just peck around at your + vittles. If you eat hearty you'll bust through. An' if them women folks + gets to droppin' handkerchiefs, just let 'em lay. Don't do any pickin' up. + Whatever you do, don't.” + </p> + <p> + As became a high-salaried expert and the representative of the great house + of Guggenheim, Colonel Bowie lived in one of the most magnificent cabins + in Dawson. Of squared logs, hand-hewn, it was two stories high, and of + such extravagant proportions that it boasted a big living room that was + used for a living room and for nothing else. + </p> + <p> + Here were big bear-skins on the rough board floor, and on the walls horns + of moose and caribou. Here roared an open fireplace and a big wood-burning + stove. And here Smoke met the social elect of Dawson—not the mere + pick-handle millionaires, but the ultra-cream of a mining city whose + population had been recruited from all the world—men like Warburton + Jones, the explorer and writer; Captain Consadine of the Mounted Police; + Haskell, Gold Commissioner of the Northwest Territory; and Baron Von + Schroeder, an emperor's favourite with an international duelling + reputation. + </p> + <p> + And here, dazzling in evening gown, he met Joy Gastell, whom hitherto he + had encountered only on trail, befurred and moccasined. At dinner he found + himself beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I feel like a fish out of water,” he confessed. “All you folks are so + real grand you know. Besides, I never dreamed such Oriental luxury existed + in the Klondike. Look at Von Schroeder there. He's actually got a dinner + jacket, and Consadine's got a starched shirt. I noticed he wore moccasins + just the same. How do you like MY outfit?” + </p> + <p> + He moved his shoulders about as if preening himself for Joy's approval. + </p> + <p> + “It looks as if you'd grown stout since you came over the Pass,” she + laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Wrong. Guess again.” + </p> + <p> + “It's somebody else's.” + </p> + <p> + “You win. I bought it for a price from one of the clerks at the A. C. + Company.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a shame clerks are so narrow-shouldered,” she sympathized. “And you + haven't told me what you think of MY outfit.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't,” he said. “I'm out of breath. I've been living on trail too + long. This sort of thing comes to me with a shock, you know. I'd quite + forgotten that women have arms and shoulders. To-morrow morning, like my + friend Shorty, I'll wake up and know it's all a dream. Now, the last time + I saw you on Squaw Creek—” + </p> + <p> + “I was just a squaw,” she broke in. + </p> + <p> + “I hadn't intended to say that. I was remembering that it was on Squaw + Creek that I discovered you had feet.” + </p> + <p> + “And I can never forget that you saved them for me,” she said. “I've been + wanting to see you ever since to thank you—” (He shrugged his + shoulders deprecatingly). “And that's why you are here to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “You asked the Colonel to invite me?” + </p> + <p> + “No! Mrs. Bowie. And I asked her to let me have you at table. And here's + my chance. Everybody's talking. Listen, and don't interrupt. You know Mono + Creek?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It has turned out rich—dreadfully rich. They estimate the claims as + worth a million and more apiece. It was only located the other day.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember the stampede.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the whole creek was staked to the sky-line, and all the feeders, + too. And yet, right now, on the main creek, Number Three below Discovery + is unrecorded. The creek was so far away from Dawson that the Commissioner + allowed sixty days for recording after location. Every claim was recorded + except Number Three below. It was staked by Cyrus Johnson. And that was + all. Cyrus Johnson has disappeared. Whether he died, whether he went down + river or up, nobody knows. Anyway, in six days, the time for recording + will be up. Then the man who stakes it, and reaches Dawson first and + records it, gets it.” + </p> + <p> + “A million dollars,” Smoke murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Gilchrist, who has the next claim below, has got six hundred dollars in a + single pan off bedrock. He's burned one hole down. And the claim on the + other side is even richer. I know.” + </p> + <p> + “But why doesn't everybody know?” Smoke queried skeptically. + </p> + <p> + “They're beginning to know. They kept it secret for a long time, and it is + only now that it's coming out. Good dog-teams will be at a premium in + another twenty-four hours. Now, you've got to get away as decently as you + can as soon as dinner is over. I've arranged it. An Indian will come with + a message for you. You read it, let on that you're very much put out, make + your excuses, and get away.” + </p> + <p> + “I—er—I fail to follow.” + </p> + <p> + “Ninny!” she exclaimed in a half-whisper. “What you must do is to get out + to-night and hustle dog-teams. I know of two. There's Hanson's team, seven + big Hudson Bay dogs—he's holding them at four hundred each. That's + top price to-night, but it won't be to-morrow. And Sitka Charley has eight + Malemutes he's asking thirty-five hundred for. To-morrow he'll laugh at an + offer of five thousand. Then you've got your own team of dogs. And you'll + have to buy several more teams. That's your work to-night. Get the best. + It's dogs as well as men that will win this race. It's a hundred and ten + miles, and you'll have to relay as frequently as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I see, you want me to go in for it,” Smoke drawled. + </p> + <p> + “If you haven't the money for the dogs, I'll—” She faltered, but + before she could continue, Smoke was speaking. + </p> + <p> + “I can buy the dogs. But—er—aren't you afraid this is + gambling?” + </p> + <p> + “After your exploits at roulette in the Elkhorn,” she retorted, “I'm not + afraid that you're afraid. It's a sporting proposition, if that's what you + mean. A race for a million, and with some of the stiffest dog-mushers and + travellers in the country entered against you. They haven't entered yet, + but by this time to-morrow they will, and dogs will be worth what the + richest man can afford to pay. Big Olaf is in town. He came up from Circle + City last month. He is one of the most terrible dog-mushers in the + country, and if he enters he will be your most dangerous man. Arizona Bill + is another. He's been a professional freighter and mail-carrier for years. + If he goes in, interest will be centered on him and Big Olaf.” + </p> + <p> + “And you intend me to come along as a sort of dark horse.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And it will have its advantages. You will not be supposed to + stand a show. After all, you know, you are still classed as a chechako. + You haven't seen the four seasons go around. Nobody will take notice of + you until you come into the home stretch in the lead.” + </p> + <p> + “It's on the home stretch the dark horse is to show up its classy form, + eh?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, and continued earnestly: “Remember, I shall never forgive + myself for the trick I played on the Squaw Creek stampede unless you win + this Mono claim. And if any man can win this race against the old-timers, + it's you.” + </p> + <p> + It was the way she said it. He felt warm all over, and in his heart and + head. He gave her a quick, searching look, involuntary and serious, and + for the moment that her eyes met his steadily, ere they fell, it seemed to + him that he read something of vaster import than the claim Cyrus Johnson + had failed to record. + </p> + <p> + “I'll do it,” he said. “I'll win it.” + </p> + <p> + The glad light in her eyes seemed to promise a greater meed than all the + gold in the Mono claim. He was aware of a movement of her hand in her lap + next to his. Under the screen of the tablecloth he thrust his own hand + across and met a firm grip of woman's fingers that sent another wave of + warmth through him. + </p> + <p> + “What will Shorty say?” was the thought that flashed whimsically through + his mind as he withdrew his hand. He glanced almost jealously at the faces + of Von Schroeder and Jones, and wondered if they had not divined the + remarkableness and deliciousness of this woman who sat beside him. + </p> + <p> + He was aroused by her voice, and realized that she had been speaking some + moments. + </p> + <p> + “So you see, Arizona Bill is a white Indian,” she was saying. “And Big + Olaf is a bear wrestler, a king of the snows, a mighty savage. He can + out-travel and out-endure an Indian, and he's never known any other life + but that of the wild and the frost.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” Captain Consadine broke in from across the table. + </p> + <p> + “Big Olaf,” she answered. “I was just telling Mr. Bellew what a traveller + he is.” + </p> + <p> + “You're right,” the Captain's voice boomed. “Big Olaf is the greatest + traveller in the Yukon. I'd back him against Old Nick himself for + snow-bucking and ice-travel. He brought in the government dispatches in + 1895, and he did it after two couriers were frozen on Chilkoot and the + third drowned in the open water of Thirty Mile.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke had travelled in a leisurely fashion up to Mono Creek, fearing to + tire his dogs before the big race. Also, he had familiarized himself with + every mile of the trail and located his relay camps. So many men had + entered the race that the hundred and ten miles of its course was almost a + continuous village. Relay camps were everywhere along the trail. Von + Schroeder, who had gone in purely for the sport, had no less than eleven + dog-teams—a fresh one for every ten miles. Arizona Bill had been + forced to content himself with eight teams. Big Olaf had seven, which was + the complement of Smoke. In addition, over two score of other men were in + the running. Not every day, even in the golden north, was a million + dollars the prize for a dog race. The country had been swept of dogs. No + animal of speed and endurance escaped the fine-tooth comb that had raked + the creeks and camps, and the prices of dogs had doubled and quadrupled in + the course of the frantic speculation. + </p> + <p> + Number Three below Discovery was ten miles up Mono Creek from its mouth. + The remaining hundred miles was to be run on the frozen breast of the + Yukon. On Number Three itself were fifty tents and over three hundred + dogs. The old stakes, blazed and scrawled sixty days before by Cyrus + Johnson, still stood, and every man had gone over the boundaries of the + claim again and again, for the race with the dogs was to be preceded by a + foot and obstacle race. Each man had to relocate the claim for himself, + and this meant that he must place two center-stakes and four corner-stakes + and cross the creek twice, before he could start for Dawson with his dogs. + </p> + <p> + Furthermore, there were to be no “sooners.” Not until the stroke of + midnight of Friday night was the claim open for relocation, and not until + the stroke of midnight could a man plant a stake. This was the ruling of + the Gold Commissioner at Dawson, and Captain Consadine had sent up a squad + of mounted police to enforce it. Discussion had arisen about the + difference between sun-time and police-time, but Consadine had sent forth + his fiat that police-time went, and, further, that it was the watch of + Lieutenant Pollock that went. + </p> + <p> + The Mono trail ran along the level creek-bed, and, less than two feet in + width, was like a groove, walled on either side by the snowfall of months. + The problem of how forty-odd sleds and three hundred dogs were to start in + so narrow a course was in everybody's mind. + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” said Shorty. “It's goin' to be the gosh-dangdest mix-up that ever + was. I can't see no way out, Smoke, except main strength an' sweat an' to + plow through. If the whole creek was glare-ice they ain't room for a dozen + teams abreast. I got a hunch right now they's goin' to be a heap of + scrappin' before they get strung out. An' if any of it comes our way, you + got to let me do the punchin'.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke squared his shoulders and laughed non-committally. + </p> + <p> + “No, you don't!” his partner cried in alarm. “No matter what happens, you + don't dast hit. You can't handle dogs a hundred miles with a busted + knuckle, an' that's what'll happen if you land on somebody's jaw.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded his head. “You're right, Shorty. I couldn't risk the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “An' just remember,” Shorty went on, “that I got to do all the shovin' for + them first ten miles, an' you got to take it easy as you can. I'll sure + jerk you through to the Yukon. After that it's up to you an' the dogs. Say—what + d'ye think Schroeder's scheme is? He's got his first team a quarter of a + mile down the creek, an' he'll know it by a green lantern. But we got him + skinned. Me for the red flare every time.” + </p> + <p> + The day had been clear and cold, but a blanket of cloud formed across the + face of the sky, and the night came on warm and dark, with the hint of + snow impending. The thermometer registered fifteen below zero, and in the + Klondike winter fifteen below is esteemed very warm. + </p> + <p> + At a few minutes before midnight, leaving Shorty with the dogs five + hundred yards down the creek, Smoke joined the racers on Number Three. + There were forty-five of them waiting the start for the thousand thousand + dollars Cyrus Johnson had left lying in the frozen gravel. Each man + carried six stakes and a heavy wooden mallet, and was clad in a smock-like + parka of heavy cotton drill. + </p> + <p> + Lieutenant Pollock, in a big bearskin coat, looked at his watch by the + light of a fire. It lacked a minute of midnight. “Make ready,” he said, as + he raised a revolver in his right hand and watched the second hand tick + around. + </p> + <p> + Forty-five hoods were thrown back from the parkas. Forty-five pairs of + hands unmittened, and forty-five pairs of moccasins pressed tensely into + the packed snow. Also, forty-five stakes were thrust into the snow, and + the same number of mallets lifted in the air. + </p> + <p> + The shot rang out, and the mallets fell. Cyrus Johnson's right to the + million had expired. To prevent confusion, Lieutenant Pollock had insisted + that the lower center-stake be driven first, next the south-eastern; and + so on around the four sides, including the upper center-stake on the way. + </p> + <p> + Smoke drove in his stake and was away with the leading dozen. Fires had + been lighted at the corners, and by each fire stood a policeman, list in + hand, checking off the names of the runners. A man was supposed to call + out his name and show his face. There was to be no staking by proxy while + the real racer was off and away down the creek. + </p> + <p> + At the first corner, beside Smoke's stake, Von Schroeder placed his. The + mallets struck at the same instant. As they hammered, more arrived from + behind and with such impetuosity as to get in one another's way and cause + jostling and shoving. Squirming through the press and calling his name to + the policeman, Smoke saw the Baron, struck in collision by one of the + rushers, hurled clean off his feet into the snow. But Smoke did not wait. + Others were still ahead of him. By the light of the vanishing fire, he was + certain that he saw the back, hugely looming, of Big Olaf, and at the + southwestern corner Big Olaf and he drove their stakes side by side. + </p> + <p> + It was no light work, this preliminary obstacle race. The boundaries of + the claim totalled nearly a mile, and most of it was over the uneven + surface of a snow-covered, niggerhead flat. All about Smoke men tripped + and fell, and several times he pitched forward himself, jarringly, on + hands and knees. Once, Big Olaf fell so immediately in front of him as to + bring him down on top. + </p> + <p> + The upper center-stake was driven by the edge of the bank, and down the + bank the racers plunged, across the frozen creek-bed, and up the other + side. Here, as Smoke clambered, a hand gripped his ankle and jerked him + back. In the flickering light of a distant fire, it was impossible to see + who had played the trick. But Arizona Bill, who had been treated + similarly, rose to his feet and drove his fist with a crunch into the + offender's face. Smoke saw and heard as he was scrambling to his feet, but + before he could make another lunge for the bank a fist dropped him + half-stunned into the snow. He staggered up, located the man, half-swung a + hook for his jaw, then remembered Shorty's warning and refrained. The next + moment, struck below the knees by a hurtling body, he went down again. + </p> + <p> + It was a foretaste of what would happen when the men reached their sleds. + Men were pouring over the other bank and piling into the jam. They swarmed + up the bank in bunches, and in bunches were dragged back by their + impatient fellows. More blows were struck, curses rose from the panting + chests of those who still had wind to spare, and Smoke, curiously + visioning the face of Joy Gastell, hoped that the mallets would not be + brought into play. Overthrown, trod upon, groping in the snow for his lost + stakes, he at last crawled out of the crush and attacked the bank farther + along. Others were doing this, and it was his luck to have many men in + advance of him in the race for the northwestern corner. + </p> + <p> + Reaching the fourth corner, he tripped headlong and in the long sprawling + fall lost his remaining stake. For five minutes he groped in the darkness + before he found it, and all the time the panting runners were passing him. + From the last corner to the creek he began overtaking men for whom the + mile run had been too much. In the creek itself Bedlam had broken loose. A + dozen sleds were piled up and overturned, and nearly a hundred dogs were + locked in combat. Among them men struggled, tearing the tangled animals + apart, or beating them apart with clubs. In the fleeting glimpse he caught + of it, Smoke wondered if he had ever seen a Dore grotesquery to compare. + </p> + <p> + Leaping down the bank beyond the glutted passage, he gained the + hard-footing of the sled-trail and made better time. Here, in packed + harbors beside the narrow trail, sleds and men waited for runners that + were still behind. From the rear came the whine and rush of dogs, and + Smoke had barely time to leap aside into the deep snow. A sled tore past, + and he made out the man kneeling and shouting madly. Scarcely was it by + when it stopped with a crash of battle. The excited dogs of a harbored + sled, resenting the passing animals, had got out of hand and sprung upon + them. + </p> + <p> + Smoke plunged around and by. He could see the green lantern of Von + Schroeder and, just below it, the red flare that marked his own team. Two + men were guarding Schroeder's dogs, with short clubs interposed between + them and the trail. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you Smoke! Come on, you Smoke!” he could hear Shorty calling + anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “Coming!” he gasped. + </p> + <p> + By the red flare, he could see the snow torn up and trampled, and from the + way his partner breathed he knew a battle had been fought. He staggered to + the sled, and, in a moment he was falling on it, Shorty's whip snapped as + he yelled: “Mush! you devils! Mush!” + </p> + <p> + The dogs sprang into the breast-bands, and the sled jerked abruptly ahead. + They were big animals—Hanson's prize team of Hudson Bays—and + Smoke had selected them for the first stage, which included the ten miles + of Mono, the heavy going of the cut-off across the flat at the mouth, and + the first ten miles of the Yukon stretch. + </p> + <p> + “How many are ahead?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You shut up an' save your wind,” Shorty answered. “Hi! you brutes! Hit + her up! Hit her up!” + </p> + <p> + He was running behind the sled, towing on a short rope. Smoke could not + see him; nor could he see the sled on which he lay at full length. The + fires had been left in the rear, and they were tearing through a wall of + blackness as fast as the dogs could spring into it. This blackness was + almost sticky, so nearly did it take on the seeming of substance. + </p> + <p> + Smoke felt the sled heel up on one runner as it rounded an invisible + curve, and from ahead came the snarls of beasts and the oaths of men. This + was known afterward as the Barnes-Slocum Jam. It was the teams of these + two men which first collided, and into it, at full career, piled Smoke's + seven big fighters. Scarcely more than semi-domesticated wolves, the + excitement of that night on Mono Creek had sent every dog fighting mad. + The Klondike dogs, driven without reins, cannot be stopped except by + voice, so that there was no stopping this glut of struggle that heaped + itself between the narrow rims of the creek. From behind, sled after sled + hurled into the turmoil. Men who had their teams nearly extricated were + overwhelmed by fresh avalanches of dogs—each animal well fed, well + rested, and ripe for battle. + </p> + <p> + “It's knock down an' drag out an' plow through!” Shorty yelled in his + partner's ear. “An' watch out for your knuckles! You drag dogs out an' let + me do the punchin'!” + </p> + <p> + What happened in the next half hour Smoke never distinctly remembered. At + the end he emerged exhausted, sobbing for breath, his jaw sore from a + fist-blow, his shoulder aching from the bruise of a club, the blood + running warmly down one leg from the rip of a dog's fangs, and both + sleeves of his parka torn to shreds. As in a dream, while the battle still + raged behind, he helped Shorty reharness the dogs. One, dying, they cut + from the traces, and in the darkness they felt their way to the repair of + the disrupted harness. + </p> + <p> + “Now you lie down an' get your wind back,” Shorty commanded. + </p> + <p> + And through the darkness the dogs sped, with unabated strength, down Mono + Creek, across the long cut-off, and to the Yukon. Here, at the junction + with the main river-trail, somebody had lighted a fire, and here Shorty + said good-bye. By the light of the fire, as the sled leaped behind the + flying dogs, Smoke caught another of the unforgettable pictures of the + Northland. It was of Shorty, swaying and sinking down limply in the snow, + yelling his parting encouragement, one eye blackened and closed, knuckles + bruised and broken, and one arm, ripped and fang-torn, gushing forth a + steady stream of blood. + </p> + <p> + “How many ahead?” Smoke asked, as he dropped his tired Hudson Bays and + sprang on the waiting sled at the first relay station. + </p> + <p> + “I counted eleven,” the man called after him, for he was already away, + behind the leaping dogs. + </p> + <p> + Fifteen miles they were to carry him on the next stage, which would fetch + him to the mouth of White River. There were nine of them, but they + composed his weakest team. The twenty-five miles between White River and + Sixty Mile he had broken into two stages because of ice-jams, and here two + of his heaviest, toughest teams were stationed. + </p> + <p> + He lay on the sled at full length, face-down, holding on with both hands. + Whenever the dogs slacked from topmost speed he rose to his knees, and, + yelling and urging, clinging precariously with one hand, threw his whip + into them. Poor team that it was, he passed two sleds before White River + was reached. Here, at the freeze-up, a jam had piled a barrier, allowing + the open water, that formed for half a mile below, to freeze smoothly. + This smooth stretch enabled the racers to make flying exchanges of sleds, + and down all the course they had placed their relays below the jams. + </p> + <p> + Over the jam and out on to the smooth, Smoke tore along, calling loudly, + “Billy! Billy!” + </p> + <p> + Billy heard and answered, and by the light of the many fires on the ice, + Smoke saw a sled swing in from the side and come abreast. Its dogs were + fresh and overhauled his. As the sleds swerved toward each other he leaped + across, and Billy promptly rolled off. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Big Olaf?” Smoke cried. + </p> + <p> + “Leading!” Billy's voice answered; and the fires were left behind, and + Smoke was again flying through the wall of blackness. + </p> + <p> + In the jams of that relay, where the way led across a chaos of up-ended + ice-cakes, and where Smoke slipped off the forward end of the sled and + with a haul-rope toiled behind the wheel-dog, he passed three sleds. + Accidents had happened, and he could hear the men cutting out dogs and + mending harnesses. + </p> + <p> + Among the jams of the next short relay into Sixty Mile, he passed two more + teams. And that he might know adequately what had happened to them, one of + his own dogs wrenched a shoulder, was unable to keep up, and was dragged + in the harness. Its teammates, angered, fell upon it with their fangs, and + Smoke was forced to club them off with the heavy butt of his whip. As he + cut the injured animal out, he heard the whining cries of dogs behind him + and the voice of a man that was familiar. It was Von Schroeder. Smoke + called a warning to prevent a rear-end collision, and the Baron, hawing + his animals and swinging on the gee-pole, went by a dozen feet to the + side. Yet so impenetrable was the blackness that Smoke heard him pass but + never saw him. + </p> + <p> + On the smooth stretch of ice beside the trading-post at Sixty Mile, Smoke + overtook two more sleds. All had just changed teams, and for five minutes + they ran abreast, each man on his knees and pouring whip and voice into + the maddened dogs. But Smoke had studied out that portion of the trail, + and now marked the tall pine on the bank that showed faintly in the light + of the many fires. Below that pine was not merely darkness, but an abrupt + cessation of the smooth stretch. There the trail, he knew, narrowed to a + single sled-width. Leaning out ahead, he caught the haul-rope and drew his + leaping sled up to the wheel-dog. He caught the animal by the hind legs + and threw it. With a snarl of rage it tried to slash him with its fangs, + but was dragged on by the rest of the team. Its body proved an efficient + brake, and the two other teams, still abreast, dashed ahead into the + darkness for the narrow way. + </p> + <p> + Smoke heard the crash and uproar of their collision, released his wheeler, + sprang to the gee-pole, and urged his team to the right into the soft snow + where the straining animals wallowed to their necks. It was exhausting + work, but he won by the tangled teams and gained the hard-packed trail + beyond. + </p> + <p> + On the relay out of Sixty Mile, Smoke had next to his poorest team, and + though the going was good, he had set it a short fifteen miles. Two more + teams would bring him into Dawson and to the gold-recorder's office, and + Smoke had selected his best animals for the last two stretches. Sitka + Charley himself waited with the eight Malemutes that would jerk Smoke + along for twenty miles, and for the finish, with a fifteen-mile run, was + his own team—the team he had had all winter and which had been with + him in the search for Surprise Lake. + </p> + <p> + The two men he had left entangled at Sixty Mile failed to overtake him, + and, on the other hand, his team failed to overtake any of the three that + still led. His animals were willing, though they lacked stamina and speed, + and little urging was needed to keep them jumping into it at their best. + There was nothing for Smoke to do but to lie face downward and hold on. + Now and again he would plunge out of the darkness into the circle of light + about a blazing fire, catch a glimpse of furred men standing by harnessed + and waiting dogs, and plunge into the darkness again. Mile after mile, + with only the grind and jar of the runners in his ears, he sped on. Almost + automatically he kept his place as the sled bumped ahead or half lifted + and heeled on the swings and swerves of the bends. First one, and then + another, without apparent rhyme or reason, three faces limned themselves + on his consciousness: Joy Gastell's, laughing and audacious; Shorty's, + battered and exhausted by the struggle down Mono Creek; and John Bellew's, + seamed and rigid, as if cast in iron, so unrelenting was its severity. And + sometimes Smoke wanted to shout aloud, to chant a paean of savage + exultation, as he remembered the office of The Billow and the serial story + of San Francisco which he had left unfinished, along with the other + fripperies of those empty days. + </p> + <p> + The grey twilight of morning was breaking as he exchanged his weary dogs + for the eight fresh Malemutes. Lighter animals than Hudson Bays, they were + capable of greater speed, and they ran with the supple tirelessness of + true wolves. Sitka Charley called out the order of the teams ahead. Big + Olaf led, Arizona Bill was second, and Von Schroeder third. These were the + three best men in the country. In fact, ere Smoke had left Dawson, the + popular betting had placed them in that order. While they were racing for + a million, at least half a million had been staked by others on the + outcome of the race. No one had bet on Smoke, who, despite his several + known exploits, was still accounted a chechako with much to learn. + </p> + <p> + As daylight strengthened, Smoke caught sight of a sled ahead, and, in half + an hour, his own lead-dog was leaping at its tail. Not until the man + turned his head to exchange greetings, did Smoke recognize him as Arizona + Bill. Von Schroeder had evidently passed him. The trail, hard-packed, ran + too narrowly through the soft snow, and for another half-hour Smoke was + forced to stay in the rear. Then they topped an ice-jam and struck a + smooth stretch below, where were a number of relay camps and where the + snow was packed widely. On his knees, swinging his whip and yelling, Smoke + drew abreast. He noted that Arizona Bill's right arm hung dead at his + side, and that he was compelled to pour leather with his left hand. + Awkward as it was, he had no hand left with which to hold on, and + frequently he had to cease from the whip and clutch to save himself from + falling off. Smoke remembered the scrimmage in the creek bed at Three + Below Discovery, and understood. Shorty's advice had been sound. + </p> + <p> + “What's happened?” Smoke asked, as he began to pull ahead. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” Arizona Bill answered. “I think I threw my shoulder out in + the scrapping.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped behind very slowly, though when the last relay station was in + sight he was fully half a mile in the rear. Ahead, bunched together, Smoke + could see Big Olaf and Von Schroeder. Again Smoke arose to his knees, and + he lifted his jaded dogs into a burst of speed such as a man only can who + has the proper instinct for dog-driving. He drew up close to the tail of + Von Schroeder's sled, and in this order the three sleds dashed out on the + smooth going below a jam, where many men and many dogs waited. Dawson was + fifteen miles away. + </p> + <p> + Von Schroeder, with his ten-mile relays, had changed five miles back and + would change five miles ahead. So he held on, keeping his dogs at full + leap. Big Olaf and Smoke made flying changes, and their fresh teams + immediately regained what had been lost to the Baron. Big Olaf led past, + and Smoke followed into the narrow trail beyond. + </p> + <p> + “Still good, but not so good,” Smoke paraphrased Spencer to himself. + </p> + <p> + Of Von Schroeder, now behind, he had no fear; but ahead was the greatest + dog-driver in the country. To pass him seemed impossible. Again and again, + many times, Smoke forced his leader to the other's sled-tail, and each + time Big Olaf let out another link and drew away. Smoke contented himself + with taking the pace, and hung on grimly. The race was not lost until one + or the other won, and in fifteen miles many things could happen. + </p> + <p> + Three miles from Dawson something did happen. To Smoke's surprise, Big + Olaf rose up and with oaths and leather proceeded to fetch out the last + ounce of effort in his animals. It was a spurt that should have been + reserved for the last hundred yards instead of being begun three miles + from the finish. Sheer dog-killing that it was, Smoke followed. His own + team was superb. No dogs on the Yukon had had harder work or were in + better condition. Besides, Smoke had toiled with them, and eaten and + bedded with them, and he knew each dog as an individual and how best to + win in to the animal's intelligence and extract its last least shred of + willingness. + </p> + <p> + They topped a small jam and struck the smooth going below. Big Olaf was + barely fifty feet ahead. A sled shot out from the side and drew in toward + him, and Smoke understood Big Olaf's terrific spurt. He had tried to gain + a lead for the change. This fresh team that waited to jerk him down the + home stretch had been a private surprise of his. Even the men who had + backed him to win had had no knowledge of it. + </p> + <p> + Smoke strove desperately to pass during the exchange of sleds. Lifting his + dogs to the effort, he ate up the intervening fifty feet. With urging and + pouring of leather, he went to the side and on until his lead-dog was + jumping abreast of Big Olaf's wheeler. On the other side, abreast, was the + relay sled. At the speed they were going, Big Olaf did not dare try the + flying leap. If he missed and fell off, Smoke would be in the lead and the + race would be lost. + </p> + <p> + Big Olaf tried to spurt ahead, and he lifted his dogs magnificently, but + Smoke's leader still continued to jump beside Big Olaf's wheeler. For half + a mile the three sleds tore and bounced along side by side. The smooth + stretch was nearing its end when Big Olaf took the chance. As the flying + sleds swerved toward each other, he leaped, and the instant he struck he + was on his knees, with whip and voice spurting the fresh team. The smooth + stretch pinched out into the narrow trail, and he jumped his dogs ahead + and into it with a lead of barely a yard. + </p> + <p> + A man was not beaten until he was beaten, was Smoke's conclusion, and + drive no matter how, Big Olaf failed to shake him off. No team Smoke had + driven that night could have stood such a killing pace and kept up with + fresh dogs—no team save this one. Nevertheless, the pace WAS killing + it, and as they began to round the bluff at Klondike City, he could feel + the pitch of strength going out of his animals. Almost imperceptibly they + lagged behind, and foot by foot Big Olaf drew away until he led by a score + of yards. + </p> + <p> + A great cheer went up from the population of Klondike City assembled on + the ice. Here the Klondike entered the Yukon, and half a mile away, across + the Klondike, on the north bank, stood Dawson. An outburst of madder + cheering arose, and Smoke caught a glimpse of a sled shooting out to him. + He recognized the splendid animals that drew it. They were Joy Gastell's. + And Joy Gastell drove them. The hood of her squirrel-skin parka was tossed + back, revealing the cameo-like oval of her face outlined against her + heavily-massed hair. Mittens had been discarded, and with bare hands she + clung to whip and sled. + </p> + <p> + “Jump!” she cried, as her leader snarled at Smoke's. + </p> + <p> + Smoke struck the sled behind her. It rocked violently from the impact of + his body, but she was full up on her knees and swinging the whip. + </p> + <p> + “Hi! You! Mush on! Chook! Chook!” she was crying, and the dogs whined and + yelped in eagerness of desire and effort to overtake Big Olaf. + </p> + <p> + And then, as the lead-dog caught the tail of Big Olaf's sled, and yard by + yard drew up abreast, the great crowd on the Dawson bank went mad. It WAS + a great crowd, for the men had dropped their tools on all the creeks and + come down to see the outcome of the race, and a dead heat at the end of a + hundred and ten miles justified any madness. + </p> + <p> + “When you're in the lead I'm going to drop off!” Joy cried out over her + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Smoke tried to protest. + </p> + <p> + “And watch out for the dip curve half way up the bank,” she warned. + </p> + <p> + Dog by dog, separated by half a dozen feet, the two teams were running + abreast. Big Olaf, with whip and voice, held his own for a minute. Then, + slowly, an inch at a time, Joy's leader began to forge past. + </p> + <p> + “Get ready!” she cried to Smoke. “I'm going to leave you in a minute. Get + the whip.” + </p> + <p> + And as he shifted his hand to clutch the whip, they heard Big Olaf roar a + warning, but too late. His lead-dog, incensed at being passed, swerved in + to the attack. His fangs struck Joy's leader on the flank. The rival teams + flew at one another's throats. The sleds overran the fighting brutes and + capsized. Smoke struggled to his feet and tried to lift Joy up. But she + thrust him from her, crying: “Go!” + </p> + <p> + On foot, already fifty feet in advance, was Big Olaf, still intent on + finishing the race. Smoke obeyed, and when the two men reached the foot of + the Dawson bank, he was at the other's heels. But up the bank Big Olaf + lifted his body hugely, regaining a dozen feet. + </p> + <p> + Five blocks down the main street was the gold-recorder's office. The + street was packed as for the witnessing of a parade. Not so easily this + time did Smoke gain to his giant rival, and when he did he was unable to + pass. Side by side they ran along the narrow aisle between the solid walls + of fur-clad, cheering men. Now one, now the other, with great convulsive + jerks, gained an inch or so, only to lose it immediately after. + </p> + <p> + If the pace had been a killing one for their dogs, the one they now set + themselves was no less so. But they were racing for a million dollars and + greatest honour in Yukon Country. The only outside impression that came to + Smoke on that last mad stretch was one of astonishment that there should + be so many people in the Klondike. He had never seen them all at once + before. + </p> + <p> + He felt himself involuntarily lag, and Big Olaf sprang a full stride in + the lead. To Smoke it seemed that his heart would burst, while he had lost + all consciousness of his legs. He knew they were flying under him, but he + did not know how he continued to make them fly, nor how he put even + greater pressure of will upon them and compelled them again to carry him + to his giant competitor's side. + </p> + <p> + The open door of the Recorder's office appeared ahead of them. Both men + made a final, futile spurt. Neither could draw away from the other, and + side by side they hit the doorway, collided violently, and fell headlong + on the office floor. + </p> + <p> + They sat up, but were too exhausted to rise. Big Olaf, the sweat pouring + from him, breathing with tremendous, painful gasps, pawed the air and + vainly tried to speak. Then he reached out his hand with unmistakable + meaning; Smoke extended his, and they shook. + </p> + <p> + “It's a dead heat,” Smoke could hear the Recorder saying, but it was as if + in a dream, and the voice was very thin and very far away. “And all I can + say is that you both win. You'll have to divide the claim between you. + You're partners.” + </p> + <p> + Their two arms pumped up and down as they ratified the decision. Big Olaf + nodded his head with great emphasis, and spluttered. At last he got it + out. + </p> + <p> + “You damn chechako,” was what he said, but in the saying of it was + admiration. “I don't know how you done it, but you did.” + </p> + <p> + Outside, the great crowd was noisily massed, while the office was packing + and jamming. Smoke and Big Olaf essayed to rise, and each helped the other + to his feet. Smoke found his legs weak under him, and staggered drunkenly. + Big Olaf tottered toward him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm sorry my dogs jumped yours.” + </p> + <p> + “It couldn't be helped,” Smoke panted back. “I heard you yell.” + </p> + <p> + “Say,” Big Olaf went on with shining eyes. “That girl—one damn fine + girl, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “One damn fine girl,” Smoke agreed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII. THE LITTLE MAN + </h2> + <p> + “I wisht you wasn't so set in your ways,” Shorty demurred. “I'm sure + scairt of that glacier. No man ought to tackle it by his lonely.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed cheerfully, and ran his eye up the glistening face of the + tiny glacier that filled the head of the valley. “Here it is August + already, and the days have been getting shorter for two months,” he + epitomized the situation. “You know quartz, and I don't. But I can bring + up the grub, while you keep after that mother lode. So-long. I'll be back + by to-morrow evening.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and started. + </p> + <p> + “I got a hunch something's goin' to happen,” Shorty pleaded after him. + </p> + <p> + But Smoke's reply was a bantering laugh. He held on down the little + valley, occasionally wiping the sweat from his forehead, the while his + feet crushed through ripe mountain raspberries and delicate ferns that + grew beside patches of sun-sheltered ice. + </p> + <p> + In the early spring he and Shorty had come up the Stewart River and + launched out into the amazing chaos of the region where Surprise Lake lay. + And all of the spring and half of the summer had been consumed in futile + wanderings, when, on the verge of turning back, they caught their first + glimpse of the baffling, gold-bottomed sheet of water which had lured and + fooled a generation of miners. Making their camp in the old cabin which + Smoke had discovered on his previous visit, they had learned three things: + first, heavy nugget gold was carpeted thickly on the lake bottom; next, + the gold could be dived for in the shallower portions, but the temperature + of the water was man-killing; and, finally, the draining of the lake was + too stupendous a task for two men in the shorter half of a short summer. + Undeterred, reasoning from the coarseness of the gold that it had not + traveled far, they had set out in search of the mother lode. They had + crossed the big glacier that frowned on the southern rim and devoted + themselves to the puzzling maze of small valleys and canyons beyond, + which, by most unmountainlike methods, drained, or had at one time + drained, into the lake. + </p> + <p> + The valley Smoke was descending gradually widened after the fashion of any + normal valley; but, at the lower end, it pinched narrowly between high + precipitous walls and abruptly stopped in a cross wall. At the base of + this, in a welter of broken rock, the streamlet disappeared, evidently + finding its way out underground. Climbing the cross wall, from the top + Smoke saw the lake beneath him. Unlike any mountain lake he had ever seen, + it was not blue. Instead, its intense peacock-green tokened its + shallowness. It was this shallowness that made its draining feasible. All + about arose jumbled mountains, with ice-scarred peaks and crags, + grotesquely shaped and grouped. All was topsyturvy and unsystematic—a + Dore nightmare. So fantastic and impossible was it that it affected Smoke + as more like a cosmic landscape-joke than a rational portion of earth's + surface. There were many glaciers in the canyons, most of them tiny, and, + as he looked, one of the larger ones, on the north shore, calved amid + thunders and splashings. Across the lake, seemingly not more than half a + mile, but, as he well knew, five miles away, he could see the bunch of + spruce-trees and the cabin. He looked again to make sure, and saw smoke + clearly rising from the chimney. Somebody else had surprised themselves + into finding Surprise Lake, was his conclusion, as he turned to climb the + southern wall. + </p> + <p> + From the top of this he came down into a little valley, flower-floored and + lazy with the hum of bees, that behaved quite as a reasonable valley + should, in so far as it made legitimate entry on the lake. What was wrong + with it was its length—scarcely a hundred yards; its head a straight + up-and-down cliff of a thousand feet, over which a stream pitched itself + in descending veils of mist. + </p> + <p> + And here he encountered more smoke, floating lazily upward in the warm + sunshine beyond an outjut of rock. As he came around the corner he heard a + light, metallic tap-tapping and a merry whistling that kept the beat. Then + he saw the man, an upturned shoe between his knees, into the sole of which + he was driving hob-spikes. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” was the stranger's greeting, and Smoke's heart went out to the + man in ready liking. “Just in time for a snack. There's coffee in the pot, + a couple of cold flapjacks, and some jerky.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll go you if I lose,” was Smoke's acceptance, as he sat down. “I've + been rather skimped on the last several meals, but there's oodles of grub + over in the cabin.” + </p> + <p> + “Across the lake? That's what I was heading for.” + </p> + <p> + “Seems Surprise Lake is becoming populous,” Smoke complained, emptying the + coffee-pot. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, you're joking, aren't you?” the man said, astonishment painted on + his face. + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed. “That's the way it takes everybody. You see those high + ledges across there to the northwest? There's where I first saw it. No + warning. Just suddenly caught the view of the whole lake from there. I'd + given up looking for it, too. + </p> + <p> + “Same here,” the other agreed. “I'd headed back and was expecting to fetch + the Stewart last night, when out I popped in sight of the lake. If that's + it, where's the Stewart? And where have I been all the time? And how did + you come here? And what's your name?” + </p> + <p> + “Bellew. Kit Bellew.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I know you.” The man's eyes and face were bright with a joyous smile, + and his hand flashed eagerly out to Smoke's. “I've heard all about you.” + </p> + <p> + “Been reading police-court news, I see,” Smoke sparred modestly. + </p> + <p> + “Nope.” The man laughed and shook his head. “Merely recent Klondike + history. I might have recognized you if you'd been shaved. I watched you + putting it all over the gambling crowd when you were bucking roulette in + the Elkhorn. My name's Carson—Andy Carson; and I can't begin to tell + you how glad I am to meet up with you.” + </p> + <p> + He was a slender man, wiry with health, with quick black eyes and a + magnetism of camaraderie. + </p> + <p> + “And this is Surprise Lake?” he murmured incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “It certainly is.” + </p> + <p> + “And its bottom's buttered with gold?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. There's some of the churning.” Smoke dipped in his overalls pocket + and brought forth half a dozen nuggets. “That's the stuff. All you have to + do is go down to bottom, blind if you want to, and pick up a handful. Then + you've got to run half a mile to get up your circulation.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, gosh-dash my dingbats, if you haven't beaten me to it,” Carson + swore whimsically, but his disappointment was patent. “An' I thought I'd + scooped the whole caboodle. Anyway, I've had the fun of getting here.” + </p> + <p> + “Fun!” Smoke cried. “Why, if we can ever get our hands on all that bottom, + we'll make Rockefeller look like thirty cents.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's yours,” was Carson's objection. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to it, my friend. You've got to realize that no gold deposit like + it has been discovered in all the history of mining. It will take you and + me and my partner and all the friends we've got to lay our hands on it. + All Bonanza and Eldorado, dumped together, wouldn't be richer than half an + acre down here. The problem is to drain the lake. It will take millions. + And there's only one thing I'm afraid of. There's so much of it that if we + fail to control the output it will bring about the demonetization of + gold.” + </p> + <p> + “And you tell me—” Carson broke off, speechless and amazed. + </p> + <p> + “And glad to have you. It will take a year or two, with all the money we + can raise, to drain the lake. It can be done. I've looked over the ground. + But it will take every man in the country that's willing to work for + wages. We'll need an army, and we need right now decent men in on the + ground floor. Are you in?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I in? Don't I look it? I feel so much like a millionaire that I'm real + timid about crossing that big glacier. Couldn't afford to break my neck + now. Wish I had some more of those hob-spikes. I was just hammering the + last in when you came along. How's yours? Let's see.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke held up his foot. + </p> + <p> + “Worn smooth as a skating-rink!” Carson cried. “You've certainly been + hiking some. Wait a minute, and I'll pull some of mine out for you.” + </p> + <p> + But Smoke refused to listen. “Besides,” he said, “I've got about forty + feet of rope cached where we take the ice. My partner and I used it coming + over. It will be a cinch.” + </p> + <p> + It was a hard, hot climb. The sun blazed dazzlingly on the ice-surface, + and with streaming pores they panted from the exertion. There were places, + criss-crossed by countless fissures and crevasses, where an hour of + dangerous toil advanced them no more than a hundred yards. At two in the + afternoon, beside a pool of water bedded in the ice, Smoke called a halt. + </p> + <p> + “Let's tackle some of that jerky,” he said. “I've been on short allowance, + and my knees are shaking. Besides, we're across the worst. Three hundred + yards will fetch us to the rocks, and it's easy going, except for a couple + of nasty fissures and one bad one that heads us down toward the bulge. + There's a weak ice-bridge there, but Shorty and I managed it.” + </p> + <p> + Over the jerky, the two men got acquainted, and Andy Carson unbosomed + himself of the story of his life. “I just knew I'd find Surprise Lake,” he + mumbled in the midst of mouthfuls. “I had to. I missed the French Hill + Benches, the Big Skookum, and Monte Cristo, and then it was Surprise Lake + or bust. And here I am. My wife knew I'd strike it. I've got faith enough, + but hers knocks mine galleywest. She's a corker, a crackerjack—dead + game, grit to her finger-ends, never-say-die, a fighter from the drop of + the hat, the one woman for me, true blue and all the rest. Take a look at + that.” + </p> + <p> + He sprung open his watch, and on the inside cover Smoke saw the small, + pasted photograph of a bright-haired woman, framed on either side by the + laughing face of a child. + </p> + <p> + “Boys?” he queried. + </p> + <p> + “Boy and girl,” Carson answered proudly. “He's a year and a half older.” + He sighed. “They might have been some grown, but we had to wait. You see, + she was sick. Lungs. But she put up a fight. What'd we know about such + stuff? I was clerking, railroad clerk, Chicago, when we got married. Her + folks were tuberculous. Doctors didn't know much in those days. They said + it was hereditary. All her family had it. Caught it from each other, only + they never guessed it. Thought they were born with it. Fate. She and I + lived with them the first couple of years. I wasn't afraid. No + tuberculosis in my family. And I got it. That set me thinking. It was + contagious. I caught it from breathing their air. + </p> + <p> + “We talked it over, she and I. Then I jumped the family doctor and + consulted an up-to-date expert. He told me what I'd figured out for + myself, and said Arizona was the place for us. We pulled up stakes and + went down—no money, nothing. I got a job sheep-herding, and left her + in town—a lung town. It was filled to spilling with lungers. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, living and sleeping in the clean open, I started right in to + mend. I was away months at a time. Every time I came back, she was worse. + She just couldn't pick up. But we were learning. I jerked her out of that + town, and she went to sheep-herding with me. In four years, winter and + summer, cold and heat, rain, snow, and frost, and all the rest, we never + slept under a roof, and we were moving camp all the time. You ought to + have seen the change—brown as berries, lean as Indians, tough as + rawhide. When we figured we were cured, we pulled out for San Francisco. + But we were too previous. By the second month we both had slight + hemorrhages. We flew the coop back to Arizona and the sheep. Two years + more of it. That fixed us. Perfect cure. All her family's dead. Wouldn't + listen to us. + </p> + <p> + “Then we jumped cities for keeps. Knocked around on the Pacific coast and + southern Oregon looked good to us. We settled in the Rogue River Valley—apples. + There's a big future there, only nobody knows it. I got my land—on + time, of course—for forty an acre. Ten years from now it'll be worth + five hundred. + </p> + <p> + “We've done some almighty hustling. Takes money, and we hadn't a cent to + start with, you know—had to build a house and barn, get horses and + plows, and all the rest. She taught school two years. Then the boy came. + But we've got it. You ought to see those trees we planted—a hundred + acres of them, almost mature now. But it's all been outgo, and the + mortgage working overtime. That's why I'm here. She'd 'a' come along only + for the kids and the trees. She's handlin' that end, and here I am, a + gosh-danged expensive millionaire—in prospect.” + </p> + <p> + He looked happily across the sun-dazzle on the ice to the green water of + the lake along the farther shore, took a final look at the photograph, and + murmured: + </p> + <p> + “She's some woman, that. She's hung on. She just wouldn't die, though she + was pretty close to skin and bone all wrapped around a bit of fire when + she went out with the sheep. Oh, she's thin now. Never will be fat. But + it's the prettiest thinness I ever saw, and when I get back, and the trees + begin to bear, and the kids get going to school, she and I are going to do + Paris. I don't think much of that burg, but she's just hankered for it all + her life.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, here's the gold that will take you to Paris,” Smoke assured him. + “All we've got to do is to get our hands on it.” + </p> + <p> + Carson nodded with glistening eyes. “Say—that farm of ours is the + prettiest piece of orchard land on all the Pacific coast. Good climate, + too. Our lungs will never get touched again there. Ex-lungers have to be + almighty careful, you know. If you're thinking of settling, well, just + take a peep in at our valley before you settle, that's all. And fishing! + Say!—did you ever get a thirty-five-pound salmon on a six-ounce rod? + Some fight, bo', some fight!” + </p> + <p> + “I'm lighter than you by forty pounds,” Carson said. “Let me go first.” + </p> + <p> + They stood on the edge of the crevasse. It was enormous and ancient, fully + a hundred feet across, with sloping, age-eaten sides instead of + sharp-angled rims. At this one place it was bridged by a huge mass of + pressure-hardened snow that was itself half ice. Even the bottom of this + mass they could not see, much less the bottom of the crevasse. Crumbling + and melting, the bridge threatened imminent collapse. There were signs + where recent portions had broken away, and even as they studied it a mass + of half a ton dislodged and fell. + </p> + <p> + “Looks pretty bad,” Carson admitted with an ominous head-shake. “And it + looks much worse than if I wasn't a millionaire.” + </p> + <p> + “But we've got to tackle it,” Smoke said. “We're almost across. We can't + go back. We can't camp here on the ice all night. And there's no other + way. Shorty and I explored for a mile up. It was in better shape, though, + when we crossed.” + </p> + <p> + “It's one at a time, and me first.” Carson took the part coil of rope from + Smoke's hand. “You'll have to cast off. I'll take the rope and the pick. + Gimme your hand so I can slip down easy.” + </p> + <p> + Slowly and carefully he lowered himself the several feet to the bridge, + where he stood, making final adjustments for the perilous traverse. On his + back was his pack outfit. Around his neck, resting on his shoulders, he + coiled the rope, one end of which was still fast to his waist. + </p> + <p> + “I'd give a mighty good part of my millions right now for a + bridge-construction gang,” he said, but his cheery, whimsical smile belied + the words. Also, he added, “It's all right; I'm a cat.” + </p> + <p> + The pick, and the long stick he used as an alpenstock, he balanced + horizontally after the manner of a rope-walker. He thrust one foot forward + tentatively, drew it back, and steeled himself with a visible, physical + effort. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I was flat broke,” he smiled up. “If ever I get out of being a + millionaire this time, I'll never be one again. It's too uncomfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” Smoke encouraged. “I've been over it before. Better let + me try it first.” + </p> + <p> + “And you forty pounds to the worse,” the little man flashed back. “I'll be + all right in a minute. I'm all right now.” And this time the nerving-up + process was instantaneous. “Well, here goes for Rogue River and the + apples,” he said, as his foot went out, this time to rest carefully and + lightly while the other foot was brought up and past. Very gently and + circumspectly he continued on his way until two-thirds of the distance was + covered. Here he stopped to examine a depression he must cross, at the + bottom of which was a fresh crack. Smoke, watching, saw him glance to the + side and down into the crevasse itself, and then begin a slight swaying. + </p> + <p> + “Keep your eyes up!” Smoke commanded sharply. “Now! Go on!” + </p> + <p> + The little man obeyed, nor faltered on the rest of the journey. The + sun-eroded slope of the farther edge of the crevasse was slippery, but not + steep, and he worked his way up to a narrow ledge, faced about, and sat + down. + </p> + <p> + “Your turn,” he called across. “But just keep a-coming and don't look + down. That's what got my goat. Just keep a-coming, that's all. And get a + move on. It's almighty rotten.” + </p> + <p> + Balancing his own stick horizontally, Smoke essayed the passage. That the + bridge was on its last legs was patent. He felt a jar under foot, a slight + movement of the mass, and a heavier jar. This was followed by a single + sharp crackle. Behind him he knew something was happening. If for no other + reason, he knew it by the strained, tense face of Carson. From beneath, + thin and faint, came the murmur of running water, and Smoke's eyes + involuntarily wavered to a glimpse of the shimmering depths. He jerked + them back to the way before him. Two-thirds over, he came to the + depression. The sharp edges of the crack, but slightly touched by the sun, + showed how recent it was. His foot was lifted to make the step across, + when the crack began slowly widening, at the same time emitting numerous + sharp snaps. He made the step quickly, increasing the stride of it, but + the worn nails of his shoe skated on the farther slope of the depression. + He fell on his face, and without pause slipped down and into the crack, + his legs hanging clear, his chest supported by the stick which he had + managed to twist crosswise as he fell. + </p> + <p> + His first sensation was the nausea caused by the sickening up-leap of his + pulse; his first idea was of surprise that he had fallen no farther. + Behind him was crackling and jar and movement to which the stick vibrated. + From beneath, in the heart of the glacier, came the soft and hollow + thunder of the dislodged masses striking bottom. And still the bridge, + broken from its farthest support and ruptured in the middle, held, though + the portion he had crossed tilted downward at a pitch of twenty degrees. + He could see Carson, perched on his ledge, his feet braced against the + melting surface, swiftly recoiling the rope from his shoulders to his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” he cried. “Don't move, or the whole shooting-match will come + down.” + </p> + <p> + He calculated the distance with a quick glance, took the bandana from his + neck and tied it to the rope, and increased the length by a second bandana + from his pocket. The rope, manufactured from sled-lashings and short + lengths of plaited rawhide knotted together, was both light and strong. + The first cast was lucky as well as deft, and Smoke's fingers clutched it. + He evidenced a hand-over-hand intention of crawling out of the crack. But + Carson, who had refastened the rope around his own waist, stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Make it fast around yourself as well,” he ordered. + </p> + <p> + “If I go I'll take you with me,” Smoke objected. + </p> + <p> + The little man became very peremptory. + </p> + <p> + “You shut up,” he ordered. “The sound of your voice is enough to start the + whole thing going.” + </p> + <p> + “If I ever start going—” Smoke began. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up! You ain't going to ever start going. Now do what I say. That's + right—under the shoulders. Make it fast. Now! Start! Get a move on, + but easy as you go. I'll take in the slack. You just keep a-coming. That's + it. Easy. Easy.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was still a dozen feet away when the final collapse of the bridge + began. Without noise, but in a jerky way, it crumbled to an increasing + tilt. + </p> + <p> + “Quick!” Carson called, coiling in hand-over-hand on the slack of the rope + which Smoke's rush gave him. + </p> + <p> + When the crash came, Smoke's fingers were clawing into the hard face of + the wall of the crevasse, while his body dragged back with the falling + bridge. Carson, sitting up, feet wide apart and braced, was heaving on the + rope. This effort swung Smoke in to the side wall, but it jerked Carson + out of his niche. Like a cat, he faced about, clawing wildly for a hold on + the ice and slipping down. Beneath him, with forty feet of taut rope + between them, Smoke was clawing just as wildly; and ere the thunder from + below announced the arrival of the bridge, both men had come to rest. + Carson had achieved this first, and the several pounds of pull he was able + to put on the rope had helped bring Smoke to a stop. + </p> + <p> + Each lay in a shallow niche, but Smoke's was so shallow that, tense with + the strain of flattening and sticking, nevertheless he would have slid on + had it not been for the slight assistance he took from the rope. He was on + the verge of a bulge and could not see beneath him. Several minutes + passed, in which they took stock of the situation and made rapid strides + in learning the art of sticking to wet and slippery ice. The little man + was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Gee!” he said; and, a minute later, “If you can dig in for a moment and + slack on the rope, I can turn over. Try it.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke made the effort, then rested on the rope again. “I can do it,” he + said. “Tell me when you're ready. And be quick.” + </p> + <p> + “About three feet down is holding for my heels,” Carson said. “It won't + take a moment. Are you ready?” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + It was hard work to slide down a yard, turn over and sit up; but it was + even harder for Smoke to remain flattened and maintain a position that + from instant to instant made a greater call upon his muscles. As it was, + he could feel the almost perceptible beginning of the slip when the rope + tightened and he looked up into his companion's face. Smoke noted the + yellow pallor of sun-tan forsaken by the blood, and wondered what his own + complexion was like. But when he saw Carson, with shaking fingers, fumble + for his sheath-knife, he decided the end had come. The man was in a funk + and was going to cut the rope. + </p> + <p> + “Don't m-mind m-m-me,” the little man chattered. “I ain't scared. It's + only my nerves, gosh-dang them. I'll b-b-be all right in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + And Smoke watched him, doubled over, his shoulders between his knees, + shivering and awkward, holding a slight tension on the rope with one hand + while with the other he hacked and gouged holes for his heels in the ice. + </p> + <p> + “Carson,” he breathed up to him, “you're some bear, some bear.” + </p> + <p> + The answering grin was ghastly and pathetic. “I never could stand height,” + Carson confessed. “It always did get me. Do you mind if I stop a minute + and clear my head? Then I'll make those heel-holds deeper so I can heave + you up.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke's heart warmed. “Look here, Carson. The thing for you to do is to + cut the rope. You can never get me up, and there's no use both of us being + lost. You can make it out with your knife.” + </p> + <p> + “You shut up!” was the hurt retort. “Who's running this?” + </p> + <p> + And Smoke could not help but see that anger was a good restorative for the + other's nerves. As for himself, it was the more nerve-racking strain, + lying plastered against the ice with nothing to do but strive to stick on. + </p> + <p> + A groan and a quick cry of “Hold on!” warned him. With face pressed + against the ice, he made a supreme sticking effort, felt the rope slacken, + and knew Carson was slipping toward him. He did not dare look up until he + felt the rope tighten and knew the other had again come to rest. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, that was a near go,” Carson chattered. “I came down over a yard. Now + you wait. I've got to dig new holds. If this danged ice wasn't so melty + we'd be hunky-dory.” + </p> + <p> + Holding the few pounds of strain necessary for Smoke with his left hand, + the little man jabbed and chopped at the ice with his right. Ten minutes + of this passed. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I'll tell you what I've done,” Carson called down. “I've made + heel-holds and hand-holes for you alongside of me. I'm going to heave the + rope in slow and easy, and you just come along sticking an' not too fast. + I'll tell you what, first of all. I'll take you on the rope and you worry + out of that pack. Get me?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded, and with infinite care unbuckled his pack-straps. With a + wriggle of the shoulders he dislodged the pack, and Carson saw it slide + over the bulge and out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “Now, I'm going to ditch mine,” he called down. “You just take it easy and + wait.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later the upward struggle began. Smoke, after drying his + hands on the insides of his arm-sleeves, clawed into the climb—bellied, + and clung, and stuck, and plastered—sustained and helped by the pull + of the rope. Alone, he could not have advanced. Despite his muscles, + because of his forty pounds' handicap, he could not cling as did Carson. A + third of the way up, where the pitch was steeper and the ice less eroded, + he felt the strain on the rope decreasing. He moved slower and slower. + Here was no place to stop and remain. His most desperate effort could not + prevent the stop, and he could feel the down-slip beginning. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going,” he called up. + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” was the reply, gritted through Carson's teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Then cast loose.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke felt the rope tauten in a futile effort, then the pace quickened, + and as he went past his previous lodgment and over the bulge the last + glimpse he caught of Carson he was turned over, with madly moving hands + and feet striving to overcome the downward draw. To Smoke's surprise, as + he went over the bulge, there was no sheer fall. The rope restrained him + as he slid down a steeper pitch, which quickly eased until he came to a + halt in another niche on the verge of another bulge. Carson was now out of + sight, ensconced in the place previously occupied by Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Gee!” he could hear Carson shiver. “Gee!” + </p> + <p> + An interval of quiet followed, and then Smoke could feel the rope + agitated. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” he called up. + </p> + <p> + “Making more hand- and foot-holds,” came the trembling answer. “You just + wait. I'll have you up here in a jiffy. Don't mind the way I talk. I'm + just excited. But I'm all right. You wait and see.” + </p> + <p> + “You're holding me by main strength,” Smoke argued. “Soon or late, with + the ice melting, you'll slip down after me. The thing for you to do is to + cut loose. Hear me! There's no use both of us going. Get that? You're the + biggest little man in creation, but you've done your best. You cut loose.” + </p> + <p> + “You shut up. I'm going to make holes this time deep enough to haul up a + span of horses.” + </p> + <p> + “You've held me up long enough,” Smoke urged. “Let me go.” + </p> + <p> + “How many times have I held you up?” came the truculent query. + </p> + <p> + “Some several, and all of them too many. You've been coming down all the + time.” + </p> + <p> + “And I've been learning the game all the time. I'm going on holding you up + until we get out of here. Savvy? When God made me a light-weight I guess + he knew what he was about. Now, shut up. I'm busy.” + </p> + <p> + Several silent minutes passed. Smoke could hear the metallic strike and + hack of the knife and occasional driblets of ice slid over the bulge and + came down to him. Thirsty, clinging on hand and foot, he caught the + fragments in his mouth and melted them to water, which he swallowed. + </p> + <p> + He heard a gasp that slid into a groan of despair, and felt a slackening + of the rope that made him claw. Immediately the rope tightened again. + Straining his eyes in an upward look along the steep slope, he stared a + moment, then saw the knife, point first, slide over the verge of the bulge + and down upon him. He tucked his cheek to it, shrank from the pang of cut + flesh, tucked more tightly, and felt the knife come to rest. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a slob,” came the wail down the crevasse. + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up, I've got it,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “Say! Wait! I've a lot of string in my pocket. I'll drop it down to you, + and you send the knife up.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke made no reply. He was battling with a sudden rush of thought. + </p> + <p> + “Hey! You! Here comes the string. Tell me when you've got it.” + </p> + <p> + A small pocket-knife, weighted on the end of the string, slid down the + ice. Smoke got it, opened the larger blade by a quick effort of his teeth + and one hand, and made sure that the blade was sharp. Then he tied the + sheath-knife to the end of the string. + </p> + <p> + “Haul away!” he called. + </p> + <p> + With strained eyes he saw the upward progress of the knife. But he saw + more—a little man, afraid and indomitable, who shivered and + chattered, whose head swam with giddiness, and who mastered his qualms and + distresses and played a hero's part. Not since his meeting with Shorty had + Smoke so quickly liked a man. Here was a proper meat-eater, eager with + friendliness, generous to destruction, with a grit that shaking fear could + not shake. Then, too, he considered the situation cold-bloodedly. There + was no chance for two. Steadily, they were sliding into the heart of the + glacier, and it was his greater weight that was dragging the little man + down. The little man could stick like a fly. Alone, he could save himself. + </p> + <p> + “Bully for us!” came the voice from above, down and across the bulge of + ice. “Now we'll get out of here in two shakes.” + </p> + <p> + The awful struggle for good cheer and hope in Carson's voice decided + Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” he said steadily, vainly striving to shake the vision of + Joy Gastell's face from his brain. “I sent that knife up for you to get + out with. Get that? I'm going to chop loose with the jack-knife. It's one + or both of us. Get that?” + </p> + <p> + “Two or nothing,” came the grim but shaky response. “If you'll hold on a + minute—” + </p> + <p> + “I've held on for too long now. I'm not married. I have no adorable thin + woman nor kids nor apple-trees waiting for me. Get me? Now, you hike up + and out of that!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait! For God's sake, wait!” Carson screamed down. “You can't do that! + Give me a chance to get you out. Be calm, old horse. We'll make the turn. + You'll see. I'm going to dig holds that'll lift a house and barn.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke made no reply. Slowly and gently, fascinated by the sight, he cut + with the knife until one of the three strands popped and parted. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” Carson cried desperately. “If you cut, I'll never + forgive you—never. I tell you it's two or nothing. We're going to + get out. Wait! For God's sake!” + </p> + <p> + And Smoke, staring at the parted strand, five inches before his eyes, knew + fear in all its weakness. He did not want to die; he recoiled from the + shimmering abyss beneath him, and his panic brain urged all the + preposterous optimism of delay. It was fear that prompted him to + compromise. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he called up. “I'll wait. Do your best. But I tell you, + Carson, if we both start slipping again I'm going to cut.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Forget it. When we start, old horse, we start up. I'm a porous + plaster. I could stick here if it was twice as steep. I'm getting a + sizable hole for one heel already. Now, you hush, and let me work.” + </p> + <p> + The slow minutes passed. Smoke centered his soul on the dull hurt of a + hang-nail on one of his fingers. He should have clipped it away that + morning—it was hurting then—he decided; and he resolved, once + clear of the crevasse, that it should immediately be clipped. Then, with + short focus, he stared at the hang-nail and the finger with a new + comprehension. In a minute, or a few minutes at best, that hang-nail, that + finger, cunningly jointed and efficient, might be part of a mangled + carcass at the bottom of the crevasse. Conscious of his fear, he hated + himself. Bear-eaters were made of sterner stuff. In the anger of + self-revolt he all but hacked at the rope with his knife. But fear made + him draw back the hand and to stick himself again, trembling and sweating, + to the slippery slope. To the fact that he was soaking wet by contact with + the thawing ice he tried to attribute the cause of his shivering; but he + knew, in the heart of him, that it was untrue. + </p> + <p> + A gasp and a groan and an abrupt slackening of the rope, warned him. He + began to slip. The movement was very slow. The rope tightened loyally, but + he continued to slip. Carson could not hold him, and was slipping with + him. The digging toe of his farther-extended foot encountered vacancy, and + he knew that it was over the straight-away fall. And he knew, too, that in + another moment his falling body would jerk Carson's after it. + </p> + <p> + Blindly, desperately, all the vitality and life-love of him beaten down in + a flashing instant by a shuddering perception of right and wrong, he + brought the knife-edge across the rope, saw the strands part, felt himself + slide more rapidly, and then fall. + </p> + <p> + What happened then, he did not know. He was not unconscious, but it + happened too quickly, and it was unexpected. Instead of falling to his + death, his feet almost immediately struck in water, and he sat violently + down in water that splashed coolingly on his face. His first impression + was that the crevasse was shallower than he had imagined and that he had + safely fetched bottom. But of this he was quickly disabused. The opposite + wall was a dozen feet away. He lay in a basin formed in an out-jut of the + ice-wall by melting water that dribbled and trickled over the bulge above + and fell sheer down a distance of a dozen feet. This had hollowed out the + basin. Where he sat the water was two feet deep, and it was flush with the + rim. He peered over the rim and looked down the narrow chasm hundreds of + feet to the torrent that foamed along the bottom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why did you?” he heard a wail from above. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” he called up. “I'm perfectly safe, sitting in a pool of water up + to my neck. And here's both our packs. I'm going to sit on them. There's + room for a half-dozen here. If you slip, stick close and you'll land. In + the meantime you hike up and get out. Go to the cabin. Somebody's there. I + saw the smoke. Get a rope, or anything that will make rope, and come back + and fish for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Honest!” came Carson's incredulous voice. + </p> + <p> + “Cross my heart and hope to die. Now, get a hustle on, or I'll catch my + death of cold.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke kept himself warm by kicking a channel through the rim with the heel + of his shoe. By the time he had drained off the last of the water, a faint + call from Carson announced that he had reached the top. + </p> + <p> + After that Smoke occupied himself with drying his clothes. The late + afternoon sun beat warmly in upon him, and he wrung out his garments and + spread them about him. His match-case was water-proof, and he manipulated + and dried sufficient tobacco and rice-paper to make cigarettes. + </p> + <p> + Two hours later, perched naked on the two packs and smoking, he heard a + voice above that he could not fail to identify. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Smoke! Smoke!” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Joy Gastell!” he called back. “Where'd you drop from?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even any skin off!” + </p> + <p> + “Father's paying the rope down now. Do you see it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and I've got it,” he answered. “Now, wait a couple of minutes, + please.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” came her anxious query, after several minutes. “Oh, I + know, you're hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm not. I'm dressing.” + </p> + <p> + “Dressing?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I've been in swimming. Now! Ready? Hoist away!” + </p> + <p> + He sent up the two packs on the first trip, was consequently rebuked by + Joy Gastell, and on the second trip came up himself. + </p> + <p> + Joy Gastell looked at him with glowing eyes, while her father and Carson + were busy coiling the rope. “How could you cut loose in that splendid + way?” she cried. “It was—it was glorious, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke waved the compliment away with a deprecatory hand. + </p> + <p> + “I know all about it,” she persisted. “Carson told me. You sacrificed + yourself to save him.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort,” Smoke lied. “I could see that swimming-pool right + under me all the time.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII. THE HANGING OF CULTUS GEORGE + </h2> + <p> + The way led steeply up through deep, powdery snow that was unmarred by + sled-track or moccasin impression. Smoke, in the lead, pressed the fragile + crystals down under his fat, short snow-shoes. The task required lungs and + muscle, and he flung himself into it with all his strength. Behind, on the + surface he packed, strained the string of six dogs, the steam-jets of + their breathing attesting their labor and the lowness of the temperature. + Between the wheel-dog and the sled toiled Shorty, his weight divided + between the guiding gee-pole and the haul, for he was pulling with the + dogs. Every half-hour he and Smoke exchanged places, for the snow-shoe + work was even more arduous than that of the gee-pole. + </p> + <p> + The whole outfit was fresh and strong. It was merely hard work being + efficiently done—the breaking of a midwinter trail across a divide. + On this severe stretch, ten miles a day they called a decent stint. They + kept in condition, but each night crawled well tired into their + sleeping-furs. This was their sixth day out from the lively camp of Mucluc + on the Yukon. In two days, with the loaded sled, they had covered the + fifty miles of packed trail up Moose Creek. Then had come the struggle + with the four feet of untouched snow that was really not snow, but + frost-crystals, so lacking in cohesion that when kicked it flew with the + thin hissing of granulated sugar. In three days they had wallowed thirty + miles up Minnow Creek and across the series of low divides that separate + the several creeks flowing south into Siwash River; and now they were + breasting the big divide, past the Bald Buttes, where the way would lead + them down Porcupine Creek to the middle reaches of Milk River. Higher up + Milk River, it was fairly rumored, were deposits of copper. And this was + their goal—a hill of pure copper, half a mile to the right and up + the first creek after Milk River issued from a deep gorge to flow across a + heavily timbered stretch of bottom. They would know it when they saw it. + One-Eyed McCarthy had described it with sharp definiteness. It was + impossible to miss it—unless McCarthy had lied. + </p> + <p> + Smoke was in the lead, and the small scattered spruce-trees were becoming + scarcer and smaller, when he saw one, dead and bone-dry, that stood in + their path. There was no need for speech. His glance to Shorty was + acknowledged by a stentorian “Whoa!” The dogs stood in the traces till + they saw Shorty begin to undo the sled-lashings and Smoke attack the dead + spruce with an ax; whereupon the animals dropped in the snow and curled + into balls, the bush of each tail curved to cover four padded feet and an + ice-rimmed muzzle. + </p> + <p> + The men worked with the quickness of long practice. Gold-pan, coffee-pot, + and cooking-pail were soon thawing the heaped frost-crystals into water. + Smoke extracted a stick of beans from the sled. Already cooked, with a + generous admixture of cubes of fat pork and bacon, the beans had been + frozen into this portable immediacy. He chopped off chunks with an ax, as + if it were so much firewood, and put them into the frying-pan to thaw. + Solidly frozen sourdough biscuits were likewise placed to thaw. In twenty + minutes from the time they halted, the meal was ready to eat. + </p> + <p> + “About forty below,” Shorty mumbled through a mouthful of beans. “Say—I + hope it don't get colder—or warmer, neither. It's just right for + trail breaking.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke did not answer. His own mouth full of beans, his jaws working, he + had chanced to glance at the lead-dog, lying half a dozen feet away. That + gray and frosty wolf was gazing at him with the infinite wistfulness and + yearning that glimmers and hazes so often in the eyes of Northland dogs. + Smoke knew it well, but never got over the unfathomable wonder of it. As + if to shake off the hypnotism, he set down his plate and coffee-cup, went + to the sled, and began opening the dried-fish sack. + </p> + <p> + “Hey!” Shorty expostulated. “What 'r' you doin'?” + </p> + <p> + “Breaking all law, custom, precedent, and trail usage,” Smoke replied. + “I'm going to feed the dogs in the middle of the day—just this once. + They've worked hard, and that last pull to the top of the divide is before + them. Besides, Bright there has been talking to me, telling me all + untellable things with those eyes of his.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty laughed skeptically. “Go on an' spoil 'em. Pretty soon you'll be + manicurin' their nails. I'd recommend cold cream and electric massage—it's + great for sled-dogs. And sometimes a Turkish bath does 'em fine.” + </p> + <p> + “I've never done it before,” Smoke defended. “And I won't again. But this + once I'm going to. It's just a whim, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if it's a hunch, go to it.” Shorty's tones showed how immediately he + had been mollified. “A man's always got to follow his hunches.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn't a hunch, Shorty. Bright just sort of got on my imagination for a + couple of twists. He told me more in one minute with those eyes of his + than I could read in the books in a thousand years. His eyes were acrawl + with the secrets of life. They were just squirming and wriggling there. + The trouble is I almost got them, and then I didn't. I'm no wiser than I + was before, but I was near them.” He paused and then added, “I can't tell + you, but that dog's eyes were just spilling over with cues to what life + is, and evolution, and star-dust, and cosmic sap, and all the rest—everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Boiled down into simple American, you got a hunch,” Shorty insisted. + </p> + <p> + Smoke finished tossing the dried salmon, one to each dog, and shook his + head. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you yes,” Shorty argued. “Smoke, it's a sure hunch. Something's + goin' to happen before the day is out. You'll see. And them dried fish'll + have a bearin'.” + </p> + <p> + “You've got to show me,” said Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “No, I ain't. The day'll take care of itself an' show you. Now listen to + what I'm tellin' you. I got a hunch myself out of your hunch. I'll bet + eleven ounces against three ornery toothpicks I'm right. When I get a + hunch I ain't a-scared to ride it.” + </p> + <p> + “You bet the toothpicks, and I'll bet the ounces,” Smoke returned. + </p> + <p> + “Nope. That'd be plain robbery. I win. I know a hunch when it tickles me. + Before the day's out somethin' 'll happen, an' them fish'll have a + meanin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell,” said Smoke, dismissing the discussion contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “An' it'll be hell,” Shorty came back. “An' I'll take three more + toothpicks with you on them same odds that it'll be sure-enough hell.” + </p> + <p> + “Done,” said Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “I win,” Shorty exulted. “Chicken-feather toothpicks for mine.” + </p> + <p> + An hour later they cleared the divide, dipped down past the Bald Buttes + through a sharp elbow-canyon, and took the steep open slope that dropped + into Porcupine Creek. Shorty, in the lead, stopped abruptly, and Smoke + whoaed the dogs. Beneath them, coming up, was a procession of humans, + scattered and draggled, a quarter of a mile long. + </p> + <p> + “They move like it was a funeral,” Shorty noted. + </p> + <p> + “They've no dogs,” said Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Yep; there's a couple of men pullin' on a sled.” + </p> + <p> + “See that fellow fall down? There's something the matter, Shorty, and + there must be two hundred of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at 'em stagger as if they was soused. There goes another.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a whole tribe. There are children there.” + </p> + <p> + “Smoke, I win,” Shorty proclaimed. “A hunch is a hunch, an' you can't beat + it. There she comes. Look at her!—surgin' up like a lot of corpses.” + </p> + <p> + The mass of Indians, at sight of the two men, had raised a weird cry of + joy and accelerated its pace. + </p> + <p> + “They're sure tolerable woozy,” commented Shorty. “See 'em fallin' down in + lumps and bunches.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at the face of that first one,” Smoke said. “It's starvation—that's + what's the matter with them. They've eaten their dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “What'll we do? Run for it?” + </p> + <p> + “And leave the sled and dogs?” Smoke demanded reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “They'll sure eat us if we don't. They look hungry enough for it. Hello, + old skeeziks. What's wrong with you? Don't look at that dog that way. No + cookin'-pot for him—savvy?” + </p> + <p> + The forerunners were arriving and crowding about them, moaning and + plainting in an unfamiliar jargon. To Smoke the picture was grotesque and + horrible. It was famine unmistakable. Their faces, hollow-cheeked and + skin-stretched, were so many death's-heads. More and more arrived and + crowded about, until Smoke and Shorty were hemmed in by the wild crew. + Their ragged garments of skin and fur were cut and slashed away, and Smoke + knew the reason for it when he saw a wizened child on a squaw's back that + sucked and chewed a strip of filthy fur. Another child he observed + steadily masticating a leather thong. + </p> + <p> + “Keep off there!—keep back!” Shorty yelled, falling back on English + after futile attempts with the little Indian he did know. + </p> + <p> + Bucks and squaws and children tottered and swayed on shaking legs and + continued to surge in, their mad eyes swimming with weakness and burning + with ravenous desire. A woman, moaning, staggered past Shorty and fell + with spread and grasping arms on the sled. An old man followed her, + panting and gasping, with trembling hands striving to cast off the sled + lashings, and get at the grub-sacks beneath. A young man, with a naked + knife, tried to rush in, but was flung back by Smoke. The whole mass + pressed in upon them, and the fight was on. + </p> + <p> + At first Smoke and Shorty shoved and thrust and threw back. Then they used + the butt of the dog-whip and their fists on the food-mad crowd. And all + this against a background of moaning and wailing women and children. Here + and there, in a dozen places, the sled-lashings were cut. Men crawled in + on their bellies, regardless of a rain of kicks and blows, and tried to + drag out the grub. These had to be picked up bodily and flung back. And + such was their weakness that they fell continually, under the slightest + pressures or shoves. Yet they made no attempt to injure the two men who + defended the sled. + </p> + <p> + It was the utter weakness of the Indians that saved Smoke and Shorty from + being overborne. In five minutes the wall of up-standing, on-struggling + Indians had been changed to heaps of fallen ones that moaned and gibbered + in the snow, and cried and sniveled as their staring, swimming eyes + focused on the grub that meant life to them and that brought the slaver to + their lips. And behind it all arose the wailing of the women and children. + </p> + <p> + “Shut up! Oh, shut up!” Shorty yelled, thrusting his fingers into his ears + and breathing heavily from his exertions. “Ah, you would, would you!” was + his cry as he lunged forward and kicked a knife from the hand of a man + who, bellying through the snow, was trying to stab the lead-dog in the + throat. + </p> + <p> + “This is terrible,” Smoke muttered. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all het up,” Shorty replied, returning from the rescue of Bright. + “I'm real sweaty. An' now what 'r' we goin' to do with this ambulance + outfit?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head, and then the problem was solved for him. An Indian + crawled forward, his one eye fixed on Smoke instead of on the sled, and in + it Smoke could see the struggle of sanity to assert itself. Shorty + remembered having punched the other eye, which was already swollen shut. + The Indian raised himself on his elbow and spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Me Carluk. Me good Siwash. Me savvy Boston man plenty. Me plenty hungry. + All people plenty hungry. All people no savvy Boston man. Me savvy. Me eat + grub now. All people eat grub now. We buy 'm grub. Got 'm plenty gold. No + got 'm grub. Summer, salmon no come Milk River. Winter, caribou no come. + No grub. Me make 'm talk all people. Me tell 'em plenty Boston man come + Yukon. Boston man have plenty grub. Boston man like 'm gold. We take 'm + gold, go Yukon, Boston man give 'm grub. Plenty gold. Me savvy Boston man + like 'm gold.” + </p> + <p> + He began fumbling with wasted fingers at the draw-string of a pouch he + took from his belt. + </p> + <p> + “Too much make 'm noise,” Shorty broke in distractedly. “You tell 'm + squaw, you tell 'm papoose, shut 'm up mouth.” + </p> + <p> + Carluk turned and addressed the wailing women. Other bucks, listening, + raised their voices authoritatively, and slowly the squaws stilled, and + quieted the children near to them. Carluk paused from fumbling the + draw-string and held up his fingers many times. + </p> + <p> + “Him people make 'm die,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And Smoke, following the count, knew that seventy-five of the tribe had + starved to death. + </p> + <p> + “Me buy 'm grub,” Carluk said, as he got the pouch open and drew out a + large chunk of heavy metal. Others were following his example, and on + every side appeared similar chunks. Shorty stared. + </p> + <p> + “Great Jeminey!” he cried. “Copper! Raw, red copper! An' they think it's + gold!” + </p> + <p> + “Him gold,” Carluk assured them confidently, his quick comprehension + having caught the gist of Shorty's exclamation. + </p> + <p> + “And the poor devils banked everything on it,” Smoke muttered. “Look at + it. That chunk there weighs forty pounds. They've got hundreds of pounds + of it, and they've carried it when they didn't have strength enough to + drag themselves. Look here, Shorty. We've got to feed them.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Sounds easy. But how about statistics? You an' me has a month's + grub, which is six meals times thirty, which is one hundred an' eighty + meals. Here's two hundred Indians, with real, full-grown appetites. How + the blazes can we give 'm one meal even?” + </p> + <p> + “There's the dog-grub,” Smoke answered. “A couple of hundred pounds of + dried salmon ought to help out. We've got to do it. They've pinned their + faith on the white man, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, an' we can't throw 'm down,” Shorty agreed. “An' we got two nasty + jobs cut out for us, each just about twicet as nasty as the other. One of + us has got to make a run of it to Mucluc an' raise a relief. The other has + to stay here an' run the hospital an' most likely be eaten. Don't let it + slip your noodle that we've been six days gettin' here; an' travelin' + light, an' all played out, it can't be made back in less 'n three days.” + </p> + <p> + For a minute Smoke pondered the miles of the way they had come, visioning + the miles in terms of time measured by his capacity for exertion. “I can + get there to-morrow night,” he announced. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” Shorty acquiesced cheerfully. “An' I'll stay an' be eaten.” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm going to take one fish each for the dogs,” Smoke explained, “and + one meal for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “An' you'll sure need it if you make Mucluc to-morrow night.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke, through the medium of Carluk, stated the program. “Make fires, long + fires, plenty fires,” he concluded. “Plenty Boston man stop Mucluc. Boston + man much good. Boston man plenty grub. Five sleeps I come back plenty + grub. This man, his name Shorty, very good friend of mine. He stop here. + He big boss—savvy?” + </p> + <p> + Carluk nodded and interpreted. + </p> + <p> + “All grub stop here. Shorty, he give 'm grub. He boss—savvy?” + </p> + <p> + Carluk interpreted, and nods and guttural cries of agreement proceeded + from the men. + </p> + <p> + Smoke remained and managed until the full swing of the arrangement was + under way. Those who were able, crawled or staggered in the collecting of + firewood. Long, Indian fires were built that accommodated all. Shorty, + aided by a dozen assistants, with a short club handy for the rapping of + hungry knuckles, plunged into the cooking. The women devoted themselves to + thawing snow in every utensil that could be mustered. First, a tiny piece + of bacon was distributed all around, and, next, a spoonful of sugar to + cloy the edge of their razor appetites. Soon, on a circle of fires drawn + about Shorty, many pots of beans were boiling, and he, with a wrathful eye + for what he called renigers, was frying and apportioning the thinnest of + flapjacks. + </p> + <p> + “Me for the big cookin',” was his farewell to Smoke. “You just keep + a-hikin'. Trot all the way there an' run all the way back. It'll take you + to-day an' to-morrow to get there, and you can't be back inside of three + days more. To-morrow they'll eat the last of the dog-fish, an' then + there'll be nary a scrap for three days. You gotta keep a-comin', Smoke. + You gotta keep a-comin'.” + </p> + <p> + Though the sled was light, loaded only with six dried salmon, a couple of + pounds of frozen beans and bacon, and a sleeping-robe, Smoke could not + make speed. Instead of riding the sled and running the dogs, he was + compelled to plod at the gee-pole. Also, a day of work had already been + done, and the freshness and spring had gone out of the dogs and himself. + The long arctic twilight was on when he cleared the divide and left the + Bald Buttes behind. + </p> + <p> + Down the slope better time was accomplished, and often he was able to + spring on the sled for short intervals and get an exhausting six-mile clip + out of the animals. Darkness caught him and fooled him in a wide-valleyed, + nameless creek. Here the creek wandered in broad horseshoe curves through + the flats, and here, to save time, he began short-cutting the flats + instead of keeping to the creek-bed. And black dark found him back on the + creek-bed feeling for the trail. After an hour of futile searching, too + wise to go farther astray, he built a fire, fed each dog half a fish, and + divided his own ration in half. Rolled in his robe, ere quick sleep came + he had solved the problem. The last big flat he had short-cut was the one + that occurred at the forks of the creek. He had missed the trail by a + mile. He was now on the main stream and below where his and Shorty's trail + crossed the valley and climbed through a small feeder to the low divide on + the other side. + </p> + <p> + At the first hint of daylight he got under way, breakfastless, and + wallowed a mile upstream to pick up the trail. And breakfastless, man and + dogs, without a halt, for eight hours held back transversely across the + series of small creeks and low divides and down Minnow Creek. By four in + the afternoon, with darkness fast-set about him, he emerged on the + hard-packed, running trail of Moose Creek. Fifty miles of it would end the + journey. He called a rest, built a fire, threw each dog its half-salmon, + and thawed and ate his pound of beans. Then he sprang on the sled, yelled, + “Mush!” and the dogs went out strongly against their breast-bands. + </p> + <p> + “Hit her up, you huskies!” he cried. “Mush on! Hit her up for grub! And no + grub short of Mucluc! Dig in, you wolves! Dig in!” + </p> + <p> + Midnight had gone a quarter of an hour in the Annie Mine. The main room + was comfortably crowded, while roaring stoves, combined with lack of + ventilation, kept the big room unsanitarily warm. The click of chips and + the boisterous play at the craps-table furnished a monotonous background + of sound to the equally monotonous rumble of men's voices where they sat + and stood about and talked in groups and twos and threes. The + gold-weighers were busy at their scales, for dust was the circulating + medium, and even a dollar drink of whiskey at the bar had to be paid for + to the weighers. + </p> + <p> + The walls of the room were of tiered logs, the bark still on, and the + chinking between the logs, plainly visible, was arctic moss. Through the + open door that led to the dance-room came the rollicking strains of a + Virginia reel, played by a piano and a fiddle. The drawing of Chinese + lottery had just taken place, and the luckiest player, having cashed at + the scales, was drinking up his winnings with half a dozen cronies. The + faro- and roulette-tables were busy and quiet. The draw-poker and + stud-poker tables, each with its circle of onlookers, were equally quiet. + At another table, a serious, concentrated game of Black Jack was on. Only + from the craps-table came noise, as the man who played rolled the dice, + full sweep, down the green amphitheater of a table in pursuit of his + elusive and long-delayed point. Ever he cried: “Oh! you Joe Cotton! Come a + four! Come a Joe! Little Joe! Bring home the bacon, Joe! Joe, you Joe, + you!” + </p> + <p> + Cultus George, a big strapping Circle City Indian, leaned distantly and + dourly against the log wall. He was a civilized Indian, if living like a + white man connotes civilization; and he was sorely offended, though the + offense was of long standing. For years he had done a white man's work, + had done it alongside of white men, and often had done it better than they + did. He wore the same pants they wore, the same hearty woolens and heavy + shirts. He sported as good a watch as they, parted his short hair on the + side, and ate the same food—bacon, beans, and flour; and yet he was + denied their greatest diversion and reward; namely, whiskey. Cultus George + was a money-earner. He had staked claims, and bought and sold claims. He + had been grub-staked, and he had accorded grub-stakes. Just now he was a + dog-musher and freighter, charging twenty-eight cents a pound for the + winter haul from Sixty Mile to Mucluc—and for bacon thirty-three + cents, as was the custom. His poke was fat with dust. He had the price of + many drinks. Yet no barkeeper would serve him. Whiskey, the hottest, + swiftest, completest gratifier of civilization, was not for him. Only by + subterranean and cowardly and expensive ways could he get a drink. And he + resented this invidious distinction, as he had resented it for years, + deeply. And he was especially thirsty and resentful this night, while the + white men he had so sedulously emulated he hated more bitterly than ever + before. The white men would graciously permit him to lose his gold across + their gaming-tables, but for neither love nor money could he obtain a + drink across their bars. Wherefore he was very sober, and very logical, + and logically sullen. + </p> + <p> + The Virginia reel in the dance-room wound to a wild close that interfered + not with the three camp drunkards who snored under the piano. “All couples + promenade to the bar!” was the caller's last cry as the music stopped. And + the couples were so promenading through the wide doorway into the main + room—the men in furs and moccasins, the women in soft fluffy + dresses, silk stockings, and dancing-slippers—when the double + storm-doors were thrust open, and Smoke Bellew staggered wearily in. + </p> + <p> + Eyes centered on him, and silence began to fall. He tried to speak, pulled + off his mittens (which fell dangling from their cords), and clawed at the + frozen moisture of his breath which had formed in fifty miles of running. + He halted irresolutely, then went over and leaned his elbow on the end of + the bar. + </p> + <p> + Only the man at the craps-table, without turning his head, continued to + roll the dice and to cry: “Oh! you Joe! Come on, you Joe!” The + gamekeeper's gaze, fixed on Smoke, caught the player's attention, and he, + too, with suspended dice, turned and looked. + </p> + <p> + “What's up, Smoke?” Matson, the owner of the Annie Mine, demanded. + </p> + <p> + With a last effort, Smoke clawed his mouth free. “I got some dogs out + there—dead beat,” he said huskily. “Somebody go and take care of + them, and I'll tell you what's the matter.” + </p> + <p> + In a dozen brief sentences, he outlined the situation. The craps-player, + his money still lying on the table and his slippery Joe Cotton still + uncaptured, had come over to Smoke, and was now the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “We gotta do something. That's straight. But what? You've had time to + think. What's your plan? Spit it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Smoke assented. “Here's what I've been thinking. We've got to + hustle light sleds on the jump. Say a hundred pounds of grub on each sled. + The driver's outfit and dog-grub will fetch it up fifty more. But they can + make time. Say we start five of these sleds pronto—best running + teams, best mushers and trail-eaters. On the soft trail the sleds can take + the lead turn about. They've got to start at once. At the best, by the + time they can get there, all those Indians won't have had a scrap to eat + for three days. And then, as soon as we've got those sleds off we'll have + to follow up with heavy sleds. Figure it out yourself. Two pounds a day is + the very least we can decently keep those Indians traveling on. That's + four hundred pounds a day, and, with the old people and the children, five + days is the quickest time we can bring them into Mucluc. Now what are you + going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Take up a collection to buy all the grub,” said the craps-player. + </p> + <p> + “I'll stand for the grub,” Smoke began impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Nope,” the other interrupted. “This ain't your treat. We're all in. Fetch + a wash-basin somebody. It won't take a minute. An' here's a starter.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled a heavy gold-sack from his pocket, untied the mouth, and poured + a stream of coarse dust and nuggets into the basin. A man beside him + caught his hand up with a jerk and an oath, elevating the mouth of the + sack so as to stop the run of the dust. To a casual eye, six or eight + ounces had already run into the basin. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be a hawg,” cried the second man. “You ain't the only one with a + poke. Gimme a chance at it.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” sneered the craps-player. “You'd think it was a stampede, you're so + goshdanged eager about it.” + </p> + <p> + Men crowded and jostled for the opportunity to contribute, and when they + were satisfied, Smoke hefted the heavy basin with both hands and grinned. + </p> + <p> + “It will keep the whole tribe in grub for the rest of the winter,” he + said. “Now for the dogs. Five light teams that have some run in them.” + </p> + <p> + A dozen teams were volunteered, and the camp, as a committee of the whole, + bickered and debated, accepted and rejected. + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Your dray-horses!” Long Bill Haskell was told. + </p> + <p> + “They can pull,” he bristled with hurt pride. + </p> + <p> + “They sure can,” he was assured. “But they can't make time for sour + apples. They've got theirs cut out for them bringing up the heavy loads.” + </p> + <p> + As fast as a team was selected, its owner, with half a dozen aids, + departed to harness up and get ready. + </p> + <p> + One team was rejected because it had come in tired that afternoon. One + owner contributed his team, but apologetically exposed a bandaged ankle + that prevented him from driving it. This team Smoke took, overriding the + objection of the crowd that he was played out. + </p> + <p> + Long Bill Haskell pointed out that while Fat Olsen's team was a + crackerjack, Fat Olsen himself was an elephant. Fat Olsen's two hundred + and forty pounds of heartiness was indignant. Tears of anger came into his + eyes, and his Scandinavian explosions could not be stopped until he was + given a place in the heavy division, the craps-player jumping at the + chance to take out Olsen's light team. + </p> + <p> + Five teams were accepted and were being harnessed and loaded, but only + four drivers had satisfied the committee of the whole. + </p> + <p> + “There's Cultus George,” some one cried. “He's a trail-eater, and he's + fresh and rested.” + </p> + <p> + All eyes turned upon the Indian, but his face was expressionless, and he + said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “You'll take a team,” Smoke said to him. + </p> + <p> + Still the big Indian made no answer. As with an electric thrill, it ran + through all of them that something untoward was impending. A restless + shifting of the group took place, forming a circle in which Smoke and + Cultus George faced each other. And Smoke realized that by common consent + he had been made the representative of his fellows in what was taking + place, in what was to take place. Also, he was angered. It was beyond him + that any human creature, a witness to the scramble of volunteers, should + hang back. For another thing, in what followed, Smoke did not have Cultus + George's point of view—did not dream that the Indian held back for + any reason save the selfish, mercenary one. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you will take a team,” Smoke said. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” Cultus George asked. + </p> + <p> + A snarl, spontaneous and general, grated in the throats and twisted the + mouths of the miners. At the same moment, with clenched fists or fingers + crooked to grip, they pressed in on the offender. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a bit, boys,” Smoke cried. “Maybe he doesn't understand. Let me + explain it to him. Look here, George. Don't you see, nobody is charging + anything. They're giving everything to save two hundred Indians from + starving to death.” He paused, to let it sink home. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” said Cultus George. + </p> + <p> + “Wait, you fellows! Now listen, George. We don't want you to make any + mistake. These starving people are your kind of people. They're another + tribe, but they're Indians just the same. Now you've seen what the white + men are doing—coughing up their dust, giving their dogs and sleds, + falling over one another to hit the trail. Only the best men can go with + the first sleds. Look at Fat Olsen there. He was ready to fight because + they wouldn't let him go. You ought to be mighty proud because all men + think you are a number-one musher. It isn't a case of how much, but how + quick.” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” said Cultus George. + </p> + <p> + “Kill him!” “Bust his head!” “Tar and feathers!” were several of the cries + in the wild medley that went up, the spirit of philanthropy and good + fellowship changed to brute savagery on the instant. + </p> + <p> + In the storm-center Cultus George stood imperturbable, while Smoke thrust + back the fiercest and shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Wait! Who's running this?” The clamor died away. “Fetch a rope,” he added + quietly. + </p> + <p> + Cultus George shrugged his shoulders, his face twisting tensely in a + sullen and incredulous grin. He knew this white-man breed. He had toiled + on trail with it and eaten its flour and bacon and beans too long not to + know it. It was a law-abiding breed. He knew that thoroughly. It always + punished the man who broke the law. But he had broken no law. He knew its + law. He had lived up to it. He had neither murdered, stolen, nor lied. + There was nothing in the white man's law against charging a price and + driving a bargain. They all charged a price and drove bargains. He was + doing nothing more than that, and it was the thing they had taught him. + Besides, if he wasn't good enough to drink with them, then he was not good + enough to be charitable with them, nor to join them in any other of their + foolish diversions. + </p> + <p> + Neither Smoke nor any man there glimpsed what lay in Cultus George's + brain, behind his attitude and prompting his attitude. Though they did not + know it, they were as beclouded as he in the matter of mutual + understanding. To them, he was a selfish brute; to him, they were selfish + brutes. + </p> + <p> + When the rope was brought, Long Bill Haskell, Fat Olsen, and the + craps-player, with much awkwardness and angry haste, got the slip-noose + around the Indian's neck and rove the rope over a rafter. At the other end + of the dangling thing a dozen men tailed on, ready to hoist away. + </p> + <p> + Nor had Cultus George resisted. He knew it for what it was—bluff. + The whites were strong on bluff. Was not draw-poker their favorite game? + Did they not buy and sell and make all bargains with bluff? Yes; he had + seen a white man do business with a look on his face of four aces and in + his hand a busted straight. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” Smoke commanded. “Tie his hands. We don't want him climbing.” + </p> + <p> + More bluff, Cultus George decided, and passively permitted his hands to be + tied behind his back. + </p> + <p> + “Now it's your last chance, George,” said Smoke. “Will you take out the + team?” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” said Cultus George. + </p> + <p> + Astounded at himself that he should be able to do such a thing, and at the + same time angered by the colossal selfishness of the Indian, Smoke gave + the signal. Nor was Cultus George any less astounded when he felt the + noose tighten with a jerk and swing him off the floor. His stolidity broke + on the instant. On his face, in quick succession, appeared surprise, + dismay, and pain. + </p> + <p> + Smoke watched anxiously. Having never been hanged himself, he felt a tyro + at the business. The body struggled convulsively, the tied hands strove to + burst the bonds, and from the throat came unpleasant noises of + strangulation. Suddenly Smoke held up his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Slack away” he ordered. + </p> + <p> + Grumbling at the shortness of the punishment, the men on the rope lowered + Cultus George to the floor. His eyes were bulging, and he was tottery on + his feet, swaying from side to side and still making a fight with his + hands. Smoke divined what was the matter, thrust violent fingers between + the rope and the neck, and brought the noose slack with a jerk. With a + great heave of the chest, Cultus George got his first breath. + </p> + <p> + “Will you take that team out?” Smoke demanded. + </p> + <p> + Cultus George did not answer. He was too busy breathing. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we white men are hogs,” Smoke filled in the interval, resentful + himself at the part he was compelled to play. “We'd sell our souls for + gold, and all that; but once in a while we forget about it and turn loose + and do something without a thought of how much there is in it. And when we + do that, Cultus George, watch out. What we want to know now is: Are you + going to take out that team?” + </p> + <p> + Cultus George debated with himself. He was no coward. Perhaps this was the + extent of their bluff, and if he gave in now he was a fool. And while he + debated, Smoke suffered from secret worry lest this stubborn aborigine + would persist in being hanged. + </p> + <p> + “How much?” said Cultus George. + </p> + <p> + Smoke started to raise his hand for the signal. + </p> + <p> + “Me go,” Cultus George said very quickly, before the rope could tighten. + </p> + <p> + “An' when that rescue expedition found me,” Shorty told it in the Annie + Mine, “that ornery Cultus George was the first in, beatin' Smoke's sled by + three hours, an' don't you forget it, Smoke comes in second at that. Just + the same, it was about time, when I heard Cultus George a-yellin' at his + dogs from the top of the divide, for those blamed Siwashes had ate my + moccasins, my mitts, the leather lacin's, my knife-sheath, an' some of 'em + was beginnin' to look mighty hungry at me—me bein' better nourished, + you see. + </p> + <p> + “An' Smoke? He was near dead. He hustled around a while, helpin' to start + a meal for them two hundred sufferin' Siwashes; an' then he fell asleep, + settin' on his haunches, thinkin' he was feedin' snow into a thawin'-pail. + I fixed him my bed, an' dang me if I didn't have to help him into it, he + was that give out. Sure I win the toothpicks. Didn't them dogs just + naturally need the six salmon Smoke fed 'em at the noonin'?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX. THE MISTAKE OF CREATION + </h2> + <p> + “Whoa!” Smoke yelled at the dogs, throwing his weight back on the gee-pole + to bring the sled to a halt. + </p> + <p> + “What's eatin' you now?” Shorty complained. “They ain't no water under + that footing.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but look at that trail cutting out to the right,” Smoke answered. “I + thought nobody was wintering in this section.” + </p> + <p> + The dogs, on the moment they stopped, dropped in the snow and began biting + out the particles of ice from between their toes. This ice had been water + five minutes before. The animals had broken through a skein of ice, + snow-powdered, which had hidden the spring water that oozed out of the + bank and pooled on top of the three-foot winter crust of Nordbeska River. + </p> + <p> + “First I heard of anybody up the Nordbeska,” Shorty said, staring at the + all but obliterated track covered by two feet of snow, that left the bed + of the river at right angles and entered the mouth of a small stream + flowing from the left. “Mebbe they're hunters and pulled their freight + long ago.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke, scooping the light snow away with mittened hands, paused to + consider, scooped again, and again paused. “No,” he decided. “There's been + travel both ways, but the last travel was up that creek. Whoever they are, + they're there now—certain. There's been no travel for weeks. Now + what's been keeping them there all the time? That's what I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “And what I want to know is where we're going to camp to-night,” Shorty + said, staring disconsolately at the sky-line in the southwest, where the + mid-afternoon twilight was darkening into night. + </p> + <p> + “Let's follow the track up the creek,” was Smoke's suggestion. “There's + plenty of dead timber. We can camp any time.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure we can camp any time, but we got to travel most of the time if we + ain't goin' to starve, an' we got to travel in the right direction.” + </p> + <p> + “We're going to find something up that creek,” Smoke went on. + </p> + <p> + “But look at the grub! Look at them dogs!” Shorty cried. “Look at—oh, + hell, all right. You will have your will.” + </p> + <p> + “It won't make the trip a day longer,” Smoke urged. “Possibly no more than + a mile longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Men has died for as little as a mile,” Shorty retorted, shaking his head + with lugubrious resignation. “Come on for trouble. Get up, you poor + sore-foots, you—get up! Haw! You Bright! Haw!” + </p> + <p> + The lead-dog obeyed, and the whole team strained weakly into the soft + snow. + </p> + <p> + “Whoa!” Shorty yelled. “It's pack trail.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke pulled his snow-shoes from under the sled-lashings, bound them to + his moccasined feet, and went to the fore to press and pack the light + surface for the dogs. + </p> + <p> + It was heavy work. Dogs and men had been for days on short rations, and + few and limited were the reserves of energy they could call upon. Though + they followed the creek bed, so pronounced was its fall that they toiled + on a stiff and unrelenting up-grade. The high rocky walls quickly drew + near together, so that their way led up the bottom of a narrow gorge. The + long lingering twilight, blocked by the high mountains, was no more than + semi-darkness. + </p> + <p> + “It's a trap,” Shorty said. “The whole look of it is rotten. It's a hole + in the ground. It's the stampin'-ground of trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke made no reply, and for half an hour they toiled on in silence—a + silence that was again broken by Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “She's a-workin',” he grumbled. “She's sure a-workin', an' I'll tell you + if you're minded to hear an' listen.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she tells me, plain an' simple, that we ain't never goin' to get + out of this hole in the ground in days an' days. We're goin' to find + trouble an' be stuck in here a long time an' then some.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she say anything about grub?” Smoke queried unsympathetically. “For + we haven't grub for days and days and days and then some.” + </p> + <p> + “Nope. Nary whisper about grub. I guess we'll manage to make out. But I + tell you one thing, Smoke, straight an' flat. I'll eat any dog in the team + exceptin' Bright. I got to draw the line on Bright. I just couldn't scoff + him.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up,” Smoke girded. “My hunch is working overtime. She tells me + there'll be no dogs eaten, and, whether it's moose or caribou or quail on + toast, we'll all fatten up.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty snorted his unutterable disgust, and silence obtained for another + quarter of an hour. + </p> + <p> + “There's the beginning of your trouble,” Smoke said, halting on his + snow-shoes and staring at an object that lay on one side of the old trail. + </p> + <p> + Shorty left the gee-pole and joined him, and together they gazed down on + the body of a man beside the trail. + </p> + <p> + “Well fed,” said Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Look at them lips,” said Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “Stiff as a poker,” said Smoke, lifting an arm, that, without moving, + moved the whole body. + </p> + <p> + “Pick 'm up an' drop 'm and he'd break to pieces,” was Shorty's comment. + </p> + <p> + The man lay on his side, solidly frozen. From the fact that no snow + powdered him, it was patent that he had lain there but a short time. + </p> + <p> + “There was a general fall of snow three days back,” said Shorty. + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded, bending over the corpse, twisting it half up to face them, + and pointing to a bullet wound in the temple. He glanced to the side and + tilted his head at a revolver that lay on top of the snow. + </p> + <p> + A hundred yards farther on they came upon a second body that lay face + downward in the trail. “Two things are pretty clear,” Smoke said. “They're + fat. That means no famine. They've not struck it rich, else they wouldn't + have committed suicide.” + </p> + <p> + “If they did,” Shorty objected. + </p> + <p> + “They certainly did. There are no tracks besides their own, and each is + powder-burned.” Smoke dragged the corpse to one side and with the toe of + his moccasin nosed a revolver out of the snow into which it had been + pressed by the body. “That's what did the work. I told you we'd find + something.” + </p> + <p> + “From the looks of it we ain't started yet. Now what'd two fat geezers + want to kill theirselves for?” + </p> + <p> + “When we find that out we'll have found the rest of your trouble,” Smoke + answered. “Come on. It's blowing dark.” + </p> + <p> + Quite dark it was when Smoke's snow-shoe tripped him over a body. He fell + across a sled, on which lay another body. And when he had dug the snow out + of his neck and struck a match, he and Shorty glimpsed a third body, + wrapped in blankets, lying beside a partially dug grave. Also, ere the + match flickered out, they caught sight of half a dozen additional graves. + </p> + <p> + “B-r-r-r,” Shorty shivered. “Suicide Camp. All fed up. I reckon they're + all dead.” + </p> + <p> + “No—peep at that.” Smoke was looking farther along at a dim glimmer + of light. “And there's another light—and a third one there. Come on. + Let's hike.” + </p> + <p> + No more corpses delayed them, and in several minutes, over a hard-packed + trail, they were in the camp. + </p> + <p> + “It's a city,” Shorty whispered. “There must be twenty cabins. An' not a + dog. Ain't that funny!” + </p> + <p> + “And that explains it,” Smoke whispered back excitedly. “It's the Laura + Sibley outfit. Don't you remember? Came up the Yukon last fall on the Port + Townsend Number Six. Went right by Dawson without stopping. The steamer + must have landed them at the mouth of the creek.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. I remember. They was Mormons.” + </p> + <p> + “No—vegetarians.” Smoke grinned in the darkness. “They won't eat + meat and they won't work dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all the same. I knowed they was something funny about 'em. Had the + allwise steer to the yellow. That Laura Sibley was goin' to take 'em right + to the spot where they'd all be millionaires.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she was their seeress—had visions and that sort of stuff. I + thought they went up the Nordensjold.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Listen to that!” + </p> + <p> + Shorty's hand in the darkness went out warningly to Smoke's chest, and + together they listened to a groan, deep and long drawn, that came from one + of the cabins. Ere it could die away it was taken up by another cabin, and + another—a vast suspiration of human misery. The effect was monstrous + and nightmarish. + </p> + <p> + “B-r-r-r,” Shorty shivered. “It's gettin' me goin'. Let's break in an' + find what's eatin' 'em.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke knocked at a lighted cabin, and was followed in by Shorty in answer + to the “Come in” of the voice they heard groaning. It was a simple log + cabin, the walls moss-chinked, the earth floor covered with sawdust and + shavings. The light was a kerosene-lamp, and they could make out four + bunks, three of which were occupied by men who ceased from groaning in + order to stare. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” Smoke demanded of one whose blankets could not hide + his broad shoulders and massively muscled body, whose eyes were + pain-racked and whose cheeks were hollow. “Smallpox? What is it?” + </p> + <p> + In reply, the man pointed at his mouth, spreading black and swollen lips + in the effort; and Smoke recoiled at the sight. + </p> + <p> + “Scurvy,” he muttered to Shorty; and the man confirmed the diagnosis with + a nod of the head. + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of grub?” Shorty asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yep,” was the answer from a man in another bunk. “Help yourself. There's + slathers of it. The cabin next on the other side is empty. Cache is right + alongside. Wade into it.” + </p> + <p> + In every cabin they visited that night they found a similar situation. + Scurvy had smitten the whole camp. A dozen women were in the party, though + the two men did not see all of them. Originally there had been + ninety-three men and women. But ten had died, and two had recently + disappeared. Smoke told of finding the two, and expressed surprise that + none had gone that short distance down the trail to find out for + themselves. What particularly struck him and Shorty was the helplessness + of these people. Their cabins were littered and dirty. The dishes stood + unwashed on the rough plank tables. There was no mutual aid. A cabin's + troubles were its own troubles, and already they had ceased from the + exertion of burying their dead. + </p> + <p> + “It's almost weird,” Smoke confided to Shorty. “I've met shirkers and + loafers, but I never met so many all at one time. You heard what they + said. They've never done a tap. I'll bet they haven't washed their own + faces. No wonder they got scurvy.” + </p> + <p> + “But vegetarians hadn't ought to get scurvy,” Shorty contended. “It's the + salt-meat-eaters that's supposed to fall for it. And they don't eat meat, + salt or fresh, raw or cooked, or any other way.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head. “I know. And it's vegetable diet that cures scurvy. + No drugs will do it. Vegetables, especially potatoes, are the only dope. + But don't forget one thing, Shorty: we are not up against a theory but a + condition. The fact is these grass-eaters have all got scurvy.” + </p> + <p> + “Must be contagious.” + </p> + <p> + “No; that the doctors do know. Scurvy is not a germ disease. It can't be + caught. It's generated. As near as I can get it, it's due to an + impoverished condition of the blood. Its cause is not something they've + got, but something they haven't got. A man gets scurvy for lack of certain + chemicals in his blood, and those chemicals don't come out of powders and + bottles, but do come out of vegetables.” + </p> + <p> + “An' these people eats nothin' but grass,” Shorty groaned. “And they've + got it up to their ears. That proves you're all wrong, Smoke. You're + spielin' a theory, but this condition sure knocks the spots outa your + theory. Scurvy's catchin', an' that's why they've all got it, an' rotten + bad at that. You an' me'll get it too, if we hang around this diggin'. + B-r-r-r!—I can feel the bugs crawlin' into my system right now.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed skeptically, and knocked on a cabin door. “I suppose we'll + find the same old thing,” he said. “Come on. We've got to get a line on + the situation.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” came a woman's sharp voice. + </p> + <p> + “We want to see you,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Two doctors from Dawson,” Shorty blurted in, with a levity that brought a + punch in the short ribs from Smoke's elbow. + </p> + <p> + “Don't want to see any doctors,” the woman said, in tones crisp and + staccato with pain and irritation. “Go away. Good night. We don't believe + in doctors.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke pulled the latch, shoved the door open, and entered, turning up the + low-flamed kerosene-lamp so that he could see. In four bunks four women + ceased from groaning and sighing to stare at the intruders. Two were + young, thin-faced creatures, the third was an elderly and very stout + woman, and the fourth, the one whom Smoke identified by her voice, was the + thinnest, frailest specimen of the human race he had ever seen. As he + quickly learned, she was Laura Sibley, the seeress and professional + clairvoyant who had organized the expedition in Los Angeles and led it to + this death-camp on the Nordbeska. The conversation that ensued was + acrimonious. Laura Sibley did not believe in doctors. Also, to add to her + purgatory, she had wellnigh ceased to believe in herself. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you send out for help?” Smoke asked, when she paused, + breathless and exhausted, from her initial tirade. “There's a camp at + Stewart River, and eighteen days' travel would fetch Dawson from here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't Amos Wentworth go?” she demanded, with a wrath that bordered + on hysteria. + </p> + <p> + “Don't know the gentleman,” Smoke countered. “What's he been doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Except that he's the only one that hasn't caught the scurvy. And + why hasn't he caught the scurvy? I'll tell you. No, I won't.” The thin + lips compressed so tightly that through the emaciated transparency of them + Smoke was almost convinced he could see the teeth and the roots of the + teeth. “And what would have been the use? Don't I know? I'm not a fool. + Our caches are filled with every kind of fruit juice and preserved + vegetables. We are better situated than any other camp in Alaska to fight + scurvy. There is no prepared vegetable, fruit, and nut food we haven't, + and in plenty.” + </p> + <p> + “She's got you there, Smoke,” Shorty exulted. “And it's a condition, not a + theory. You say vegetables cures. Here's the vegetables, and where's the + cure?” + </p> + <p> + “There's no explanation I can see,” Smoke acknowledged. “Yet there is no + camp in Alaska like this. I've seen scurvy—a sprinkling of cases + here and there; but I never saw a whole camp with it, nor did I ever see + such terrible cases. Which is neither here nor there, Shorty. We've got to + do what we can for these people, but first we've got to make camp and take + care of the dogs. We'll see you in the morning, er—Mrs. Sibley.” + </p> + <p> + “MISS Sibley,” she bridled. “And now, young man, if you come fooling + around this cabin with any doctor stuff I'll fill you full of birdshot.” + </p> + <p> + “This divine seeress is a sweet one,” Smoke chuckled, as he and Shorty + felt their way back through the darkness to the empty cabin next to the + one they had first entered. + </p> + <p> + It was evident that two men had lived until recently in the cabin, and the + partners wondered if they weren't the two suicides down the trail. + Together they overhauled the cache and found it filled with an + undreamed-of variety of canned, powdered, dried, evaporated, condensed, + and desiccated foods. + </p> + <p> + “What in the name of reason do they want to go and get scurvy for?” Shorty + demanded, brandishing to the light packages of egg-powder and Italian + mushrooms. “And look at that! And that!” He tossed out cans of tomatoes + and corn and bottles of stuffed olives. “And the divine steeress got the + scurvy, too. What d'ye make of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Seeress,” Smoke corrected. + </p> + <p> + “Steeress,” Shorty reiterated. “Didn't she steer 'em here to this hole in + the ground?” + </p> + <p> + Next morning, after daylight, Smoke encountered a man carrying a heavy + sled-load of firewood. He was a little man, clean-looking and spry, who + walked briskly despite the load. Smoke experienced an immediate dislike. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” the little man answered. + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” Smoke said. “That's why I asked you. You're Amos Wentworth. + Now why under the sun haven't you the scurvy like all the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I've exercised,” came the quick reply. “There wasn't any need for + any of them to get it if they'd only got out and done something. What did + they do? Growled and kicked and grouched at the cold, the long nights, the + hardships, the aches and pains and everything else. They loafed in their + beds until they swelled up and couldn't leave them, that's all. Look at + me. I've worked. Come into my cabin.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke followed him in. + </p> + <p> + “Squint around. Clean as a whistle, eh? You bet. Everything shipshape. I + wouldn't keep those chips and shavings on the floor except for the warmth, + but they're clean chips and shavings. You ought to see the floor in some + of the shacks. Pig-pens. As for me, I haven't eaten a meal off an unwashed + dish. No, sir. It meant work, and I've worked, and I haven't the scurvy. + You can put that in your pipe and smoke it.” + </p> + <p> + “You've hit the nail on the head,” Smoke admitted. “But I see you've only + one bunk. Why so unsociable?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I like to be. It's easier to clean up for one than two, that's + why. The lazy blanket-loafers! Do you think that I could have stood one + around? No wonder they got scurvy.” + </p> + <p> + It was very convincing, but Smoke could not rid himself of his dislike of + the man. + </p> + <p> + “What's Laura Sibley got it in for you for?” he asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Amos Wentworth shot a quick look at him. “She's a crank,” was the reply. + “So are we all cranks, for that matter. But Heaven save me from the crank + that won't wash the dishes that he eats off of, and that's what this crowd + of cranks are like.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later, Smoke was talking with Laura Sibley. Supported by a + stick in either hand, she had paused in hobbling by his cabin. + </p> + <p> + “What have you got it in for Wentworth for?” he asked, apropos of nothing + in the conversation and with a suddenness that caught her off her guard. + </p> + <p> + Her green eyes flashed bitterly, her emaciated face for the second was + convulsed with rage, and her sore lips writhed on the verge of + unconsidered speech. But only a splutter of gasping, unintelligible sounds + issued forth, and then, by a terrible effort, she controlled herself. + </p> + <p> + “Because he's healthy,” she panted. “Because he hasn't the scurvy. Because + he is supremely selfish. Because he won't lift a hand to help anybody + else. Because he'd let us rot and die, as he is letting us rot and die, + without lifting a finger to fetch us a pail of water or a load of + firewood. That's the kind of a brute he is. But let him beware! That's + all. Let him beware!” + </p> + <p> + Still panting and gasping, she hobbled on her way, and five minutes + afterward, coming out of the cabin to feed the dogs, Smoke saw her + entering Amos Wentworth's cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Something rotten here, Shorty, something rotten,” he said, shaking his + head ominously, as his partner came to the door to empty a pan of + dish-water. + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” was the cheerful rejoinder. “An' you an' me'll be catchin' it yet. + You'll see.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mean the scurvy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sure, if you mean the divine steeress. She'd rob a corpse. She's the + hungriest-lookin' female I ever seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Exercise has kept you and me in condition, Shorty. It's kept Wentworth in + condition. You see what lack of exercise has done for the rest. Now it's + up to us to prescribe exercise for these hospital wrecks. It will be your + job to see that they get it. I appoint you chief nurse.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Me?” Shorty shouted. “I resign.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you don't. I'll be able assistant, because it isn't going to be any + soft snap. We've got to make them hustle. First thing, they'll have to + bury their dead. The strongest for the burial squad; then the next + strongest on the firewood squad (they've been lying in their blankets to + save wood); and so on down the line. And spruce-tea. Mustn't forget that. + All the sour-doughs swear by it. These people have never even heard of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “We sure got ourn cut out for us,” Shorty grinned. “First thing we know + we'll be full of lead.” + </p> + <p> + “And that's our first job,” Smoke said. “Come on.” + </p> + <p> + In the next hour, each of the twenty-odd cabins was raided. All ammunition + and every rifle, shotgun, and revolver was confiscated. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, you invalids,” was Shorty's method. “Shootin'-irons—fork + 'em over. We need 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Who says so?” was the query at the first cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Two doctors from Dawson,” was Shorty's answer. “An' what they say goes. + Come on. Shell out the ammunition, too.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want them for?” + </p> + <p> + “To stand off a war-party of canned beef comin' down the canyon. And I'm + givin' you fair warnin' of a spruce-tea invasion. Come across.” + </p> + <p> + And this was only the beginning of the day. Men were persuaded, coaxed, + bullied or dragged by main strength from their bunks and forced to dress. + Smoke selected the mildest cases for the burial squad. Another squad was + told off to supply the wood by which the graves were burned down into the + frozen muck and gravel. Still another squad had to chop firewood and + impartially supply every cabin. Those who were too weak for outdoor work + were put to cleaning and scrubbing the cabins and washing clothes. One + squad brought in many loads of spruce-boughs, and every stove was used for + the brewing of spruce-tea. + </p> + <p> + But no matter what face Smoke and Shorty put on it, the situation was grim + and serious. At least thirty fearful and impossible cases could not be + taken from the beds, as the two men, with nausea and horror, learned; + while one, a woman, died in Laura Sibley's cabin. Yet strong measures were + necessary. + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to wallop a sick man,” Shorty explained, his fist doubled + menacingly. “But I'd wallop his block off if it'd make him well. And what + all you lazy bums needs is a wallopin'. Come on! Out of that an' into them + duds of yourn, double quick, or I'll sure muss up the front of your face.” + </p> + <p> + All the gangs groaned, and sighed, and wept, the tears streaming and + freezing down their cheeks as they toiled; and it was patent that their + agony was real. The situation was desperate, and Smoke's prescription was + heroic. + </p> + <p> + When the work-gangs came in at noon, they found decently cooked dinners + awaiting them, prepared by the weaker members of their cabins under the + tutelage and drive of Smoke and Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “That'll do,” Smoke said at three in the afternoon. “Knock off. Go to your + bunks. You may be feeling rotten now, but you'll be the better for it + to-morrow. Of course it hurts to get well, but I'm going to get you well.” + </p> + <p> + “Too late,” Amos Wentworth sneered pallidly at Smoke's efforts. “They + ought to have started in that way last fall.” + </p> + <p> + “Come along with me,” Smoke answered. “Pick up those two pails. You're not + ailing.” + </p> + <p> + From cabin to cabin the three men went, dosing every man and woman with a + full pint of spruce-tea. Nor was it easy. + </p> + <p> + “You might as well learn at the start that we mean business,” Smoke stated + to the first obdurate, who lay on his back, groaning through set teeth. + “Stand by, Shorty.” Smoke caught the patient by the nose and tapped the + solar-plexus section so as to make the mouth gasp open. “Now, Shorty! Down + she goes!” + </p> + <p> + And down it went, accompanied with unavoidable splutterings and + stranglings. + </p> + <p> + “Next time you'll take it easier,” Smoke assured the victim, reaching for + the nose of the man in the adjoining bunk. + </p> + <p> + “I'd sooner take castor oil,” was Shorty's private confidence, ere he + downed his own portion. “Great jumpin' Methuselem!” was his entirely + public proclamation the moment after he had swallowed the bitter dose. + “It's a pint long, but hogshead strong.” + </p> + <p> + “We're covering this spruce-tea route four times a day, and there are + eighty of you to be dosed each time,” Smoke informed Laura Sibley. “So + we've no time to fool. Will you take it or must I hold your nose?” His + thumb and forefinger hovered eloquently above her. “It's vegetable, so you + needn't have any qualms.” + </p> + <p> + “Qualms!” Shorty snorted. “No, sure, certainly not. It's the deliciousest + dope!” + </p> + <p> + Laura Sibley hesitated. She gulped her apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Smoke demanded peremptorily. + </p> + <p> + “I'll—I'll take it,” she quavered. “Hurry up!” + </p> + <p> + That night, exhausted as by no hard day of trail, Smoke and Shorty crawled + into their blankets. + </p> + <p> + “I'm fairly sick with it,” Smoke confessed. “The way they suffer is awful. + But exercise is the only remedy I can think of, and it must be given a + thorough trial. I wish we had a sack of raw potatoes.” + </p> + <p> + “Sparkins he can't wash no more dishes,” Shorty said. “It hurts him so he + sweats his pain. I seen him sweat it. I had to put him back in the bunk, + he was that helpless.” + </p> + <p> + “If only we had raw potatoes,” Smoke went on. “The vital, essential + something is missing from that prepared stuff. The life has been + evaporated out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “An' if that young fellow Jones in the Brownlow cabin don't croak before + morning I miss my guess.” + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven's sake be cheerful,” Smoke chided. + </p> + <p> + “We got to bury him, ain't we?” came the indignant snort. “I tell you that + boy's something awful—” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up,” Smoke said. + </p> + <p> + And after several more indignant snorts, the heavy breathing of sleep + arose from Shorty's bunk. + </p> + <p> + In the morning, not only was Jones dead, but one of the stronger men who + had worked on the firewood squad was found to have hanged himself. A + nightmare procession of days set in. For a week, steeling himself to the + task, Smoke enforced the exercise and the spruce-tea. And one by one, and + in twos and threes, he was compelled to knock off the workers. As he was + learning, exercise was the last thing in the world for scurvy patients. + The diminishing burial squad was kept steadily at work, and a surplus + half-dozen graves were always burned down and waiting. + </p> + <p> + “You couldn't have selected a worse place for a camp,” Smoke told Laura + Sibley. “Look at it—at the bottom of a narrow gorge, running east + and west. The noon sun doesn't rise above the top of the wall. You can't + have had sunlight for several months.” + </p> + <p> + “But how was I to know?” + </p> + <p> + He shrugged his shoulders. “I don't see why not, if you could lead a + hundred fools to a gold-mine.” + </p> + <p> + She glared malevolently at him and hobbled on. Several minutes afterward, + coming back from a trip to where a squad of groaning patients was + gathering spruce-boughs, Smoke saw the seeress entering Amos Wentworth's + cabin and followed after her. At the door he could hear her voice, + whimpering and pleading. + </p> + <p> + “Just for me,” she was begging, as Smoke entered. “I won't tell a soul.” + </p> + <p> + Both glanced guiltily at the intruder, and Smoke was certain that he was + on the edge of something, he knew not what, and he cursed himself for not + having eavesdropped. + </p> + <p> + “Out with it,” he commanded harshly. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “What is what?” Amos Wentworth asked sullenly. And Smoke could not name + what was what. + </p> + <p> + Grimmer and grimmer grew the situation. In that dark hole of a canyon, + where sunlight never penetrated, the horrible death list mounted up. Each + day, in apprehension, Smoke and Shorty examined each other's mouths for + the whitening of the gums and mucous membranes—the invariable first + symptom of the disease. + </p> + <p> + “I've quit,” Shorty announced one evening. “I've been thinkin' it over, + an' I quit. I can make a go at slave-drivin', but cripple-drivin's too + much for my stomach. They go from bad to worse. They ain't twenty men I + can drive to work. I told Jackson this afternoon he could take to his + bunk. He was gettin' ready to suicide. I could see it stickin' out all + over him. Exercise ain't no good.” + </p> + <p> + “I've made up my mind to the same thing,” Smoke answered. “We'll knock off + all but about a dozen. They'll have to lend a hand. We can relay them. And + we'll keep up the spruce-tea.” + </p> + <p> + “It ain't no good.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm about ready to agree with that, too, but at any rate it doesn't hurt + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Another suicide,” was Shorty's news the following morning. “That Phillips + is the one. I seen it comin' for days.” + </p> + <p> + “We're up against the real thing,” Smoke groaned. “What would you suggest, + Shorty?” + </p> + <p> + “Who? Me? I ain't got no suggestions. The thing's got to run its course.” + </p> + <p> + “But that means they'll all die,” Smoke protested. + </p> + <p> + “Except Wentworth,” Shorty snarled; for he had quickly come to share his + partner's dislike for that individual. + </p> + <p> + The everlasting miracle of Wentworth's immunity perplexed Smoke. Why + should he alone not have developed scurvy? Why did Laura Sibley hate him, + and at the same time whine and snivel and beg from him? What was it she + begged from him and that he would not give? + </p> + <p> + On several occasions Smoke made it a point to drop into Wentworth's cabin + at meal-time. But one thing did he note that was suspicious, and that was + Wentworth's suspicion of him. Next he tried sounding out Laura Sibley. + </p> + <p> + “Raw potatoes would cure everybody here,” he remarked to the seeress. “I + know it. I've seen it work before.” + </p> + <p> + The flare of conviction in her eyes, followed by bitterness and hatred, + told him the scent was warm. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you bring in a supply of fresh potatoes on the steamer?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “We did. But coming up the river we sold them all out at a bargain at Fort + Yukon. We had plenty of the evaporated kinds, and we knew they'd keep + better. They wouldn't even freeze.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke groaned. “And you sold them all?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. How were we to know?” + </p> + <p> + “Now mightn't there have been a couple of odd sacks left?—accidentally, + you know, mislaid on the steamer?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, as he thought, a trifle belatedly, then added, “We + never found any.” + </p> + <p> + “But mightn't there?” he persisted. + </p> + <p> + “How do I know?” she rasped angrily. “I didn't have charge of the + commissary.” + </p> + <p> + “And Amos Wentworth did,” he jumped to the conclusion. “Very good. Now + what is your private opinion—just between us two. Do you think + Wentworth has any raw potatoes stored away somewhere?” + </p> + <p> + “No; certainly not. Why should he?” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn't he?” + </p> + <p> + She shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Struggle as he would with her, Smoke could not bring her to admit the + possibility. + </p> + <p> + “Wentworth's a swine,” was Shorty's verdict, when Smoke told his + suspicions. + </p> + <p> + “And so is Laura Sibley,” Smoke added. “She believes he has the potatoes, + and is keeping it quiet, and trying to get him to share with her.” + </p> + <p> + “An' he won't come across, eh?” Shorty cursed frail human nature with one + of his best flights, and caught his breath. “They both got their feet in + the trough. May God rot them dead with scurvy for their reward, that's all + I got to say, except I'm goin' right up now an' knock Wentworth's block + off.” + </p> + <p> + But Smoke stood out for diplomacy. That night, when the camp groaned and + slept, or groaned and did not sleep, he went to Wentworth's unlighted + cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me, Wentworth,” he said. “I've got a thousand dollars in dust + right here in this sack. I'm a rich man in this country, and I can afford + it. I think I'm getting touched. Put a raw potato in my hand and the dust + is yours. Here, heft it.” + </p> + <p> + And Smoke thrilled when Amos Wentworth put out his hand in the darkness + and hefted the gold. Smoke heard him fumble in the blankets, and then felt + pressed into his hand, not the heavy gold-sack, but the unmistakable + potato, the size of a hen's egg, warm from contact with the other's body. + </p> + <p> + Smoke did not wait till morning. He and Shorty were expecting at any time + the deaths of their worst two cases, and to this cabin the partners went. + Grated and mashed up in a cup, skin, and clinging specks of the earth, and + all, was the thousand-dollar potato—a thick fluid, that they fed, + several drops at a time, into the frightful orifices that had once been + mouths. Shift by shift, through the long night, Smoke and Shorty relieved + each other at administering the potato juice, rubbing it into the poor + swollen gums where loose teeth rattled together and compelling the + swallowing of every drop of the precious elixir. + </p> + <p> + By evening of the next day the change for the better in the two patients + was miraculous and almost unbelievable. They were no longer the worst + cases. In forty-eight hours, with the exhaustion of the potato, they were + temporarily out of danger, though far from being cured. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you what I'll do,” Smoke said to Wentworth. “I've got holdings + in this country, and my paper is good anywhere. I'll give you five hundred + dollars a potato up to fifty thousand dollars' worth. That's one hundred + potatoes.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that all the dust you had?” Wentworth queried. + </p> + <p> + “Shorty and I scraped up all we had. But, straight, he and I are worth + several millions between us.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't any potatoes,” Wentworth said finally. “Wish I had. That potato + I gave you was the only one. I'd been saving it all the winter for fear + I'd get the scurvy. I only sold it so as to be able to buy a passage out + of the country when the river opens.” + </p> + <p> + Despite the cessation of potato-juice, the two treated cases continued to + improve through the third day. The untreated cases went from bad to worse. + On the fourth morning, three horrible corpses were buried. Shorty went + through the ordeal, then turned to Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “You've tried your way. Now it's me for mine.” + </p> + <p> + He headed straight for Wentworth's cabin. What occurred there, Shorty + never told. He emerged with knuckles skinned and bruised, and not only did + Wentworth's face bear all the marks of a bad beating, but for a long time + he carried his head, twisted and sidling, on a stiff neck. This phenomenon + was accounted for by a row of four finger-marks, black and blue, on one + side of the windpipe and by a single black-and-blue mark on the other + side. + </p> + <p> + Next, Smoke and Shorty together invaded Wentworth's cabin, throwing him + out in the snow while they turned the interior upside down. Laura Sibley + hobbled in and frantically joined them in the search. + </p> + <p> + “You don't get none, old girl, not if we find a ton,” Shorty assured her. + </p> + <p> + But she was no more disappointed than they. Though the very floor was dug + up, they discovered nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I'm for roastin' him over a slow fire an' make 'm cough up,” Shorty + proposed earnestly. + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head reluctantly. + </p> + <p> + “It's murder,” Shorty held on. “He's murderin' all them poor geezers just + as much as if he knocked their brains out with an ax, only worse.” + </p> + <p> + Another day passed, during which they kept a steady watch on Wentworth's + movements. Several times, when he started out, water-bucket in hand, for + the creek, they casually approached the cabin, and each time he hurried + back without the water. + </p> + <p> + “They're cached right there in his cabin,” Shorty said. “As sure as God + made little apples, they are. But where? We sure overhauled it plenty.” He + stood up and pulled on his mittens. “I'm goin' to find 'em, if I have to + pull the blame shack down a log at a time.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at Smoke, who, with an intent, absent face, had not heard him. + </p> + <p> + “What's eatin' you?” Shorty demanded wrathfully. “Don't tell me you've + gone an' got the scurvy!” + </p> + <p> + “Just trying to remember something, Shorty.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. That's the trouble. But it has a bearing, if only I could + remember it.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you look here, Smoke; don't you go an' get bug-house,” Shorty + pleaded. “Think of me! Let your think-slats rip. Come on an' help me pull + that shack down. I'd set her afire, if it wa'n't for roastin' them spuds.” + </p> + <p> + “That's it!” Smoke exploded, as he sprang to his feet. “Just what I was + trying to remember. Where's that kerosene-can? I'm with you, Shorty. The + potatoes are ours.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the game?” + </p> + <p> + “Watch me, that's all,” Smoke baffled. “I always told you, Shorty, that a + deficient acquaintance with literature was a handicap, even in the + Klondike. Now what we're going to do came out of a book. I read it when I + was a kid, and it will work. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + Several minutes later, under a pale-gleaming, greenish aurora borealis, + the two men crept up to Amos Wentworth's cabin. Carefully and noiselessly + they poured kerosene over the logs, extra-drenching the door-frame and + window-sash. Then the match was applied, and they watched the flaming oil + gather headway. They drew back beyond the growing light and waited. + </p> + <p> + They saw Wentworth rush out, stare wildly at the conflagration, and plunge + back into the cabin. Scarcely a minute elapsed when he emerged, this time + slowly, half doubled over, his shoulders burdened by a sack heavy and + unmistakable. Smoke and Shorty sprang at him like a pair of famished + wolves. They hit him right and left, at the same instant. He crumpled down + under the weight of the sack, which Smoke pressed over with his hands to + make sure. Then he felt his knees clasped by Wentworth's arms as the man + turned a ghastly face upward. + </p> + <p> + “Give me a dozen, only a dozen—half a dozen—and you can have + the rest,” he squalled. He bared his teeth and, with mad rage, half + inclined his head to bite Smoke's leg, then he changed his mind and fell + to pleading. “Just half a dozen,” he wailed. “Just half a dozen. I was + going to turn them over to you—to-morrow. Yes, to-morrow. That was + my idea. They're life! They're life! Just half a dozen!” + </p> + <p> + “Where's the other sack?” Smoke bluffed. + </p> + <p> + “I ate it up,” was the reply, unimpeachably honest. “That sack's all + that's left. Give me a few. You can have the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Ate 'em up!” Shorty screamed. “A whole sack! An' them geezers dyin' for + want of 'em! This for you! An' this! An' this! An' this! You swine! You + hog!” + </p> + <p> + The first kick tore Wentworth away from his embrace of Smoke's knees. The + second kick turned him over in the snow. But Shorty went on kicking. + </p> + <p> + “Watch out for your toes,” was Smoke's only interference. + </p> + <p> + “Sure; I'm usin' the heel,” Shorty answered. “Watch me. I'll cave his ribs + in. I'll kick his jaw off. Take that! An' that! Wisht I could give you the + boot instead of the moccasin. You swine!” + </p> + <p> + There was no sleep in camp that night. Hour after hour Smoke and Shorty + went the rounds, doling the life-renewing potato-juice, a quarter of a + spoonful at a dose, into the poor ruined mouths of the population. And + through the following day, while one slept the other kept up the work. + </p> + <p> + There were no more deaths. The most awful cases began to mend with an + immediacy that was startling. By the third day, men who had not been off + their backs for weeks crawled out of their bunks and tottered around on + crutches. And on that day, the sun, two months then on its journey into + northern declination, peeped cheerfully over the crest of the canyon for + the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Nary a potato,” Shorty told the whining, begging Wentworth. “You ain't + even touched with scurvy. You got outside a whole sack, an' you're loaded + against scurvy for twenty years. Knowin' you, I've come to understand God. + I always wondered why he let Satan live. Now I know. He let him live just + as I let you live. But it's a cryin' shame, just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “A word of advice,” Smoke told Wentworth. “These men are getting well + fast; Shorty and I are leaving in a week, and there will be nobody to + protect you when these men go after you. There's the trail. Dawson's + eighteen days' travel.” + </p> + <p> + “Pull your freight, Amos,” Shorty supplemented, “or what I done to you + won't be a circumstance to what them convalescents'll do to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, I beg of you, listen to me,” Wentworth whined. “I'm a stranger + in this country. I don't know its ways. I don't know the trail. Let me + travel with you. I'll give you a thousand dollars if you'll let me travel + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Smoke grinned maliciously. “If Shorty agrees.” + </p> + <p> + “WHO? ME?” Shorty stiffened for a supreme effort. “I ain't nobody. + Woodticks ain't got nothin' on me when it comes to humility. I'm a worm, a + maggot, brother to the pollywog an' child of the blow-fly. I ain't afraid + or ashamed of nothin' that creeps or crawls or stinks. But travel with + that mistake of creation! Go 'way, man. I ain't proud, but you turn my + stomach.” + </p> + <p> + And Amos Wentworth went away, alone, dragging a sled loaded with + provisions sufficient to last him to Dawson. A mile down the trail Shorty + overhauled him. + </p> + <p> + “Come here to me,” was Shorty's greeting. “Come across. Fork over. Cough + up.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand,” Wentworth quavered, shivering from recollection of + the two beatings, hand and foot, he had already received from Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “That thousand dollars, d' ye understand that? That thousand dollars gold + Smoke bought that measly potato with. Come through.” + </p> + <p> + And Amos Wentworth passed the gold-sack over. + </p> + <p> + “Hope a skunk bites you an' you get howlin' hydrophoby,” were the terms of + Shorty's farewell. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X. A FLUTTER IN EGGS + </h2> + <p> + It was in the A. C. Company's big store at Dawson, on a morning of crisp + frost, that Lucille Arral beckoned Smoke Bellew over to the dry-goods + counter. The clerk had gone on an expedition into the storerooms, and, + despite the huge, red-hot stoves, Lucille had drawn on her mittens again. + </p> + <p> + Smoke obeyed her call with alacrity. The man did not exist in Dawson who + would not have been flattered by the notice of Lucille Arral, the singing + soubrette of the tiny stock company that performed nightly at the Palace + Opera House. + </p> + <p> + “Things are dead,” she complained, with pretty petulance, as soon as they + had shaken hands. “There hasn't been a stampede for a week. That masked + ball Skiff Mitchell was going to give us has been postponed. There's no + dust in circulation. There's always standing-room now at the Opera House. + And there hasn't been a mail from the Outside for two whole weeks. In + short, this burg has crawled into its cave and gone to sleep. We've got to + do something. It needs livening—and you and I can do it. We can give + it excitement if anybody can. I've broken with Wild Water, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke caught two almost simultaneous visions. One was of Joy Gastell; the + other was of himself, in the midst of a bleak snow-stretch, under a cold + arctic moon, being pot-shotted with accurateness and dispatch by the + aforesaid Wild Water. Smoke's reluctance at raising excitement with the + aid of Lucille Arral was too patent for her to miss. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not thinking what you are thinking at all, thank you,” she chided, + with a laugh and a pout. “When I throw myself at your head you'll have to + have more eyes and better ones than you have now to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Men have died of heart disease at the sudden announcement of good + fortune,” he murmured in the unveracious gladness of relief. + </p> + <p> + “Liar,” she retorted graciously. “You were more scared to death than + anything else. Now take it from me, Mr. Smoke Bellew, I'm not going to + make love to you, and if you dare to make love to me, Wild Water will take + care of your case. You know HIM. Besides, I—I haven't really broken + with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on with your puzzles,” he jeered. “Maybe I can start guessing what + you're driving at after a while.” + </p> + <p> + “There's no guessing, Smoke. I'll give it to you straight. Wild Water + thinks I've broken with him, don't you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, have you, or haven't you?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't—there! But it's between you and me in confidence. He + thinks I have. I made a noise like breaking with him, and he deserved it, + too.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do I come in, stalking-horse or fall-guy?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither. You make a pot of money, we put across the laugh on Wild Water + and cheer Dawson up, and, best of all, and the reason for it all, he gets + disciplined. He needs it. He's—well, the best way to put it is, he's + too turbulent. Just because he's a big husky, because he owns more rich + claims than he can keep count of—” + </p> + <p> + “And because he's engaged to the prettiest little woman in Alaska,” Smoke + interpolated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and because of that, too, thank you, is no reason for him to get + riotous. He broke out last night again. Sowed the floor of the M. & M. + with gold-dust. All of a thousand dollars. Just opened his poke and + scattered it under the feet of the dancers. You've heard of it, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; this morning. I'd like to be the sweeper in that establishment. But + still I don't get you. Where do I come in?” + </p> + <p> + “Listen. He was too turbulent. I broke our engagement, and he's going + around making a noise like a broken heart. Now we come to it. I like + eggs.” + </p> + <p> + “They're off!” Smoke cried in despair. “Which way? Which way?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait.” + </p> + <p> + “But what have eggs and appetite got to do with it?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Everything, if you'll only listen.” + </p> + <p> + “Listening, listening,” he chanted. + </p> + <p> + “Then for Heaven's sake listen. I like eggs. There's only a limited supply + of eggs in Dawson.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. I know that, too. Slavovitch's restaurant has most of them. Ham and + one egg, three dollars. Ham and two eggs, five dollars. That means two + dollars an egg, retail. And only the swells and the Arrals and the Wild + Waters can afford them.” + </p> + <p> + “He likes eggs, too,” she continued. “But that's not the point. I like + them. I have breakfast every morning at eleven o'clock at Slavovitch's. I + invariably eat two eggs.” She paused impressively. “Suppose, just suppose, + somebody corners eggs.” + </p> + <p> + She waited, and Smoke regarded her with admiring eyes, while in his heart + he backed with approval Wild Water's choice of her. + </p> + <p> + “You're not following,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” he replied. “I give up. What's the answer?” + </p> + <p> + “Stupid! You know Wild Water. When he sees I'm languishing for eggs, and I + know his mind like a book, and I know how to languish, what will he do?” + </p> + <p> + “You answer it. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he'll just start stampeding for the man that's got the corner in + eggs. He'll buy the corner, no matter what it costs. Picture: I come into + Slavovitch's at eleven o'clock. Wild Water will be at the next table. + He'll make it his business to be there. 'Two eggs, shirred,' I'll say to + the waiter. 'Sorry, Miss Arral,' the waiter will say; 'they ain't no more + eggs.' Then up speaks Wild Water, in that big bear voice of his, 'Waiter, + six eggs, soft boiled.' And the waiter says, 'Yes, sir,' and the eggs are + brought. Picture: Wild Water looks sideways at me, and I look like a + particularly indignant icicle and summon the waiter. 'Sorry, Miss Arral,' + he says, 'but them eggs is Mr. Wild Water's. You see, Miss, he owns 'em.' + Picture: Wild Water, triumphant, doing his best to look unconscious while + he eats his six eggs. + </p> + <p> + “Another picture: Slavovitch himself bringing two shirred eggs to me and + saying, 'Compliments of Mr. Wild Water, Miss.' What can I do? What can I + possibly do but smile at Wild Water, and then we make up, of course, and + he'll consider it cheap if he has been compelled to pay ten dollars for + each and every egg in the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, go on,” Smoke urged. “At what station do I climb onto the + choo-choo cars, or at what water-tank do I get thrown off?” + </p> + <p> + “Ninny! You don't get thrown off. You ride the egg-train straight into the + Union Depot. You make that corner in eggs. You start in immediately, + to-day. You can buy every egg in Dawson for three dollars and sell out to + Wild Water at almost any advance. And then, afterward, we'll let the + inside history come out. The laugh will be on Wild Water. His turbulence + will be some subdued. You and I share the glory of it. You make a pile of + money. And Dawson wakes up with a grand ha! ha! Of course—if—if + you think the speculation too risky, I'll put up the dust for the corner.” + </p> + <p> + This last was too much for Smoke. Being only a mere mortal Western man, + with queer obsessions about money and women, he declined with scorn the + proffer of her dust. + </p> + <p> + “Hey! Shorty!” Smoke called across the main street to his partner, who was + trudging along in his swift, slack-jointed way, a naked bottle with frozen + contents conspicuously tucked under his arm. Smoke crossed over. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you been all morning? Been looking for you everywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Up to Doc's,” Shorty answered, holding out the bottle. “Something's wrong + with Sally. I seen last night, at feedin'-time, the hair on her tail an' + flanks was fallin' out. The Doc says—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind that,” Smoke broke in impatiently. “What I want—” + </p> + <p> + “What's eatin' you?” Shorty demanded in indignant astonishment. “An' Sally + gettin' naked bald in this crimpy weather! I tell you that dog's sick. Doc + says—” + </p> + <p> + “Let Sally wait. Listen to me—” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you she can't wait. It's cruelty to animals. She'll be frost-bit. + What are you in such a fever about anyway? Has that Monte Cristo strike + proved up?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know, Shorty. But I want you to do me a favor.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Shorty said gallantly, immediately appeased and acquiescent. “What + is it? Let her rip. Me for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to buy eggs for me—” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, an' Floridy water an' talcum powder, if you say the word. An' poor + Sally sheddin' something scand'lous! Look here, Smoke, if you want to go + in for high livin' you go an' buy your own eggs. Beans an' bacon's good + enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to buy, but I want you to help me to buy. Now, shut up, + Shorty. I've got the floor. You go right straight to Slavovitch's. Pay as + high as three dollars, but buy all he's got.” + </p> + <p> + “Three dollars!” Shorty groaned. “An' I heard tell only yesterday that + he's got all of seven hundred in stock! Twenty-one hundred dollars for + hen-fruit! Say, Smoke, I tell you what. You run right up and see the Doc. + He'll tend to your case. An' he'll only charge you an ounce for the first + prescription. So-long, I gotta to be pullin' my freight.” + </p> + <p> + He started off, but Smoke caught his partner by the shoulder, arresting + his progress and whirling him around. + </p> + <p> + “Smoke, I'd sure do anything for you,” Shorty protested earnestly. “If you + had a cold in the head an' was layin' with both arms broke, I'd set by + your bedside, day an' night, an' wipe your nose for you. But I'll be + everlastin'ly damned if I'll squander twenty-one hundred good iron dollars + on hen-fruit for you or any other two-legged man.” + </p> + <p> + “They're not your dollars, but mine, Shorty. It's a deal I have on. What + I'm after is to corner every blessed egg in Dawson, in the Klondike, on + the Yukon. You've got to help me out. I haven't the time to tell you of + the inwardness of the deal. I will afterward, and let you go half on it if + you want to. But the thing right now is to get the eggs. Now you hustle up + to Slavovitch's and buy all he's got.” + </p> + <p> + “But what'll I tell 'm? He'll sure know I ain't goin' to eat 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him nothing. Money talks. He sells them cooked for two dollars. + Offer him up to three for them uncooked. If he gets curious, tell him + you're starting a chicken ranch. What I want is the eggs. And then keep + on; nose out every egg in Dawson and buy it. Understand? Buy it! That + little joint across the street from Slavovitch's has a few. Buy them. I'm + going over to Klondike City. There's an old man there, with a bad leg, + who's broke and who has six dozen. He's held them all winter for the rise, + intending to get enough out of them to pay his passage back to Seattle. + I'll see he gets his passage, and I'll get the eggs. Now hustle. And they + say that little woman down beyond the sawmill who makes moccasins has a + couple of dozen.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, if you say so, Smoke. But Slavovitch seems the main squeeze. + I'll just get an iron-bound option, black an' white, an' gather in the + scatterin' first.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. Hustle. And I'll tell you the scheme tonight.” + </p> + <p> + But Shorty flourished the bottle. “I'm goin' to doctor up Sally first. The + eggs can wait that long. If they ain't all eaten, they won't be eaten + while I'm takin' care of a poor sick dog that's saved your life an' mine + more 'n once.” + </p> + <p> + Never was a market cornered more quickly. In three days every known egg in + Dawson, with the exception of several dozen, was in the hands of Smoke and + Shorty. Smoke had been more liberal in purchasing. He unblushingly pleaded + guilty to having given the old man in Klondike City five dollars apiece + for his seventy-two eggs. Shorty had bought most of the eggs, and he had + driven bargains. He had given only two dollars an egg to the woman who + made moccasins, and he prided himself that he had come off fairly well + with Slavovitch, whose seven hundred and fifteen eggs he had bought at a + flat rate of two dollars and a half. On the other hand, he grumbled + because the little restaurant across the street had held him up for two + dollars and seventy-five cents for a paltry hundred and thirty-four eggs. + </p> + <p> + The several dozen not yet gathered in were in the hands of two persons. + One, with whom Shorty was dealing, was an Indian woman who lived in a + cabin on the hill back of the hospital. + </p> + <p> + “I'll get her to-day,” Shorty announced next morning. “You wash the + dishes, Smoke. I'll be back in a jiffy, if I don't bust myself a-shovin' + dust at her. Gimme a man to deal with every time. These blamed women—it's + something sad the way they can hold out on a buyer. The only way to get + 'em is sellin'. Why, you'd think them eggs of hern was solid nuggets.” + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon, when Smoke returned to the cabin, he found Shorty + squatted on the floor, rubbing ointment into Sally's tail, his countenance + so expressionless that it was suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “What luck?” Shorty asked carelessly, after several minutes had passed. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing doing,” Smoke answered. “How did you get on with the squaw?” + </p> + <p> + Shorty cocked his head triumphantly toward a tin pail of eggs on the + table. “Seven dollars a clatter, though,” he confessed, after another + minute of silent rubbing. + </p> + <p> + “I offered ten dollars finally,” Smoke said, “and then the fellow told me + he'd already sold his eggs. Now that looks bad, Shorty. Somebody else is + in the market. Those twenty-eight eggs are liable to cause us trouble. You + see, the success of the corner consists in holding every last—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off to stare at his partner. A pronounced change was coming over + Shorty—one of agitation masked by extreme deliberation. He closed + the salve-box, wiped his hands slowly and thoroughly on Sally's furry + coat, stood up, went over to the corner and looked at the thermometer, and + came back again. He spoke in a low, toneless, and super-polite voice. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind kindly just repeating over how many eggs you said the man + didn't sell to you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-eight.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum,” Shorty communed to himself, with a slight duck of the head of + careless acknowledgment. Then he glanced with slumbering anger at the + stove. “Smoke, we'll have to dig up a new stove. That fire-box is burned + plumb into the oven so it blacks the biscuits.” + </p> + <p> + “Let the fire-box alone,” Smoke commanded, “and tell me what's the + matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Matter? An' you want to know what's the matter? Well, kindly please + direct them handsome eyes of yourn at that there pail settin' on the + table. See it?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I want to tell you one thing, just one thing. They's just exactly, + preecisely, nor nothin' more or anythin' less'n twenty-eight eggs in the + pail, an' they cost, every danged last one of 'em, just exactly seven + great big round iron dollars a throw. If you stand in cryin' need of any + further items of information, I'm willin' and free to impart.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” Smoke requested. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that geezer you was dickerin' with is a big buck Indian. Am I + right?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded, and continued to nod to each question. + </p> + <p> + “He's got one cheek half gone where a bald-face grizzly swatted him. Am I + right? He's a dog-trader—right, eh? His name is Scar-Face Jim. + That's so, ain't it? D'ye get my drift?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean we've been bidding—?” + </p> + <p> + “Against each other. Sure thing. That squaw's his wife, an' they keep + house on the hill back of the hospital. I could 'a' got them eggs for two + a throw if you hadn't butted in.” + </p> + <p> + “And so could I,” Smoke laughed, “if you'd kept out, blame you! But it + doesn't amount to anything. We know that we've got the corner. That's the + big thing.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty spent the next hour wrestling with a stub of a pencil on the margin + of a three-year-old newspaper, and the more interminable and hieroglyphic + grew his figures the more cheerful he became. + </p> + <p> + “There she stands,” he said at last. “Pretty? I guess yes. Lemme give you + the totals. You an' me has right now in our possession exactly nine + hundred an' seventy-three eggs. They cost us exactly two thousand, seven + hundred an' sixty dollars, reckonin' dust at sixteen an ounce an' not + countin' time. An' now listen to me. If we stick up Wild Water for ten + dollars a egg we stand to win, clean net an' all to the good, just exactly + six thousand nine hundred and seventy dollars. Now that's a book-makin' + what is, if anybody should ride up on a dog-sled an' ask you. An' I'm in + half on it! Put her there, Smoke. I'm that thankful I'm sure droolin' + gratitude. Book-makin'! Say, I'd sooner run with the chicks than the + ponies any day.” + </p> + <p> + At eleven that night Smoke was routed from sound sleep by Shorty, whose + fur parka exhaled an atmosphere of keen frost and whose hand was extremely + cold in its contact with Smoke's cheek. + </p> + <p> + “What is it now?” Smoke grumbled. “Rest of Sally's hair fallen out?” + </p> + <p> + “Nope. But I just had to tell you the good news. I seen Slavovitch. Or + Slavovitch seen me, I guess, because he started the seance. He says to me: + 'Shorty, I want to speak to you about them eggs. I've kept it quiet. + Nobody knows I sold 'em to you. But if you're speculatin', I can put you + wise to a good thing.' An' he did, too, Smoke. Now what'd you guess that + good thing is?” + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Name it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, maybe it sounds incredible, but that good thing was Wild Water + Charley. He's lookin' to buy eggs. He goes around to Slavovitch an' offers + him five dollars an egg, an' before he quits he's offerin' eight. An' + Slavovitch ain't got no eggs. Last thing Wild Water says to Slavovitch is + that he'll beat the head offen him if he ever finds out Slavovitch has + eggs cached away somewheres. Slavovitch had to tell 'm he'd sold the eggs, + but that the buyer was secret. + </p> + <p> + “Slavovitch says to let him say the word to Wild Water who's got the eggs. + 'Shorty,' he says to me, 'Wild Water'll come a-runnin'. You can hold him + up for eight dollars.' 'Eight dollars, your grandmother,' I says. 'He'll + fall for ten before I'm done with him.' Anyway, I told Slavovitch I'd + think it over and let him know in the mornin'. Of course we'll let 'm pass + the word on to Wild Water. Am I right?” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly are, Shorty. First thing in the morning tip off Slavovitch. + Have him tell Wild Water that you and I are partners in the deal.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later Smoke was again aroused by Shorty. + </p> + <p> + “Say! Smoke! Oh, Smoke!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a cent less than ten a throw. Do you get that?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure thing—all right,” Smoke returned sleepily. + </p> + <p> + In the morning Smoke chanced upon Lucille Arral again at the dry-goods + counter of the A. C. Store. + </p> + <p> + “It's working,” he jubilated. “It's working. Wild Water's been around to + Slavovitch, trying to buy or bully eggs out of him. And by this time + Slavovitch has told him that Shorty and I own the corner.” + </p> + <p> + Lucille Arral's eyes sparkled with delight. “I'm going to breakfast right + now,” she cried. “And I'll ask the waiter for eggs, and be so plaintive + when there aren't any as to melt a heart of stone. And you know Wild + Water's been around to Slavovitch, trying to buy the corner if it costs + him one of his mines. I know him. And hold out for a stiff figure. Nothing + less than ten dollars will satisfy me, and if you sell for anything less, + Smoke, I'll never forgive you.” + </p> + <p> + That noon, up in their cabin, Shorty placed on the table a pot of beans, a + pot of coffee, a pan of sourdough biscuits, a tin of butter and a tin of + condensed cream, a smoking platter of moose-meat and bacon, a plate of + stewed dried peaches, and called: “Grub's ready. Take a slant at Sally + first.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke put aside the harness on which he was sewing, opened the door, and + saw Sally and Bright spiritedly driving away a bunch of foraging sled-dogs + that belonged to the next cabin. Also he saw something else that made him + close the door hurriedly and dash to the stove. The frying-pan, still hot + from the moose-meat and bacon, he put back on the front lid. Into the + frying-pan he put a generous dab of butter, then reached for an egg, which + he broke and dropped spluttering into the pan. As he reached for a second + egg, Shorty gained his side and clutched his arm in an excited grip. + </p> + <p> + “Hey! What you doin'?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Frying eggs,” Smoke informed him, breaking the second one and throwing + off Shorty's detaining hand. “What's the matter with your eyesight? Did + you think I was combing my hair?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you feel well?” Shorty queried anxiously, as Smoke broke a third + egg and dexterously thrust him back with a stiff-arm jolt on the breast. + “Or are you just plain loco? That's thirty dollars' worth of eggs + already.” + </p> + <p> + “And I'm going to make it sixty dollars' worth,” was the answer, as Smoke + broke the fourth. “Get out of the way, Shorty. Wild Water's coming up the + hill, and he'll be here in five minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty sighed vastly with commingled comprehension and relief, and sat + down at the table. By the time the expected knock came at the door, Smoke + was facing him across the table, and, before each, was a plate containing + three hot, fried eggs. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” Smoke called. + </p> + <p> + Wild Water Charley, a strapping young giant just a fraction of an inch + under six feet in height and carrying a clean weight of one hundred and + ninety pounds, entered and shook hands. + </p> + <p> + “Set down an' have a bite, Wild Water,” Shorty invited. “Smoke, fry him + some eggs. I'll bet he ain't scoffed an egg in a coon's age.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke broke three more eggs into the hot pan, and in several minutes + placed them before his guest, who looked at them with so strange and + strained an expression that Shorty confessed afterward his fear that Wild + Water would slip them into his pocket and carry them away. + </p> + <p> + “Say, them swells down in the States ain't got nothin' over us in the + matter of eats,” Shorty gloated. “Here's you an' me an' Smoke gettin' + outside ninety dollars' worth of eggs an' not battin' an eye.” + </p> + <p> + Wild Water stared at the rapidly disappearing eggs and seemed petrified. + </p> + <p> + “Pitch in an' eat,” Smoke encouraged. + </p> + <p> + “They—they ain't worth no ten dollars,” Wild Water said slowly. + </p> + <p> + Shorty accepted the challenge. “A thing's worth what you can get for it, + ain't it?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But nothin'. I'm tellin' you what we can get for 'em. Ten a throw, just + like that. We're the egg trust, Smoke an' me, an' don't you forget it. + When we say ten a throw, ten a throw goes.” He mopped his plate with a + biscuit. “I could almost eat a couple more,” he sighed, then helped + himself to the beans. + </p> + <p> + “You can't eat eggs like that,” Wild Water objected. “It—it ain't + right.” + </p> + <p> + “We just dote on eggs, Smoke an' me,” was Shorty's excuse. + </p> + <p> + Wild Water finished his own plate in a half-hearted way and gazed + dubiously at the two comrades. “Say, you fellows can do me a great favor,” + he began tentatively. “Sell me, or lend me, or give me, about a dozen of + them eggs.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Smoke answered. “I know what a yearning for eggs is myself. But + we're not so poor that we have to sell our hospitality. They'll cost you + nothing—” Here a sharp kick under the table admonished him that + Shorty was getting nervous. “A dozen, did you say, Wild Water?” + </p> + <p> + Wild Water nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Go ahead, Shorty,” Smoke went on. “Cook them up for him. I can + sympathize. I've seen the time myself when I could eat a dozen, straight + off the bat.” + </p> + <p> + But Wild Water laid a restraining hand on the eager Shorty as he + explained. “I don't mean cooked. I want them with the shells on.” + </p> + <p> + “So that you can carry 'em away?” + </p> + <p> + “That's the idea.” + </p> + <p> + “But that ain't hospitality,” Shorty objected. “It's—it's tradin'.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded concurrence. “That's different, Wild Water. I thought you + just wanted to eat them. You see, we went into this for a speculation.” + </p> + <p> + The dangerous blue of Wild Water's eyes began to grow more dangerous. + “I'll pay you for them,” he said sharply. “How much?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not a dozen,” Smoke replied. “We couldn't sell a dozen. We're not + retailers; we're speculators. We can't break our own market. We've got a + hard and fast corner, and when we sell out it's the whole corner or + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “How many have you got, and how much do you want for them?” + </p> + <p> + “How many have we, Shorty?” Smoke inquired. + </p> + <p> + Shorty cleared his throat and performed mental arithmetic aloud. “Lemme + see. Nine hundred an' seventy-three minus nine, that leaves nine hundred + an' sixty-two. An' the whole shootin'-match, at ten a throw, will tote up + just about nine thousand six hundred an' twenty iron dollars. Of course, + Wild Water, we're playin' fair, an' it's money back for bad ones, though + they ain't none. That's one thing I never seen in the Klondike—a bad + egg. No man's fool enough to bring in a bad egg.” + </p> + <p> + “That's fair,” Smoke added. “Money back for the bad ones, Wild Water. And + there's our proposition—nine thousand six hundred and twenty dollars + for every egg in the Klondike.” + </p> + <p> + “You might play them up to twenty a throw an' double your money,” Shorty + suggested. + </p> + <p> + Wild Water shook his head sadly and helped himself to the beans. “That + would be too expensive, Shorty. I only want a few. I'll give you ten + dollars for a couple of dozen. I'll give you twenty—but I can't buy + 'em all.” + </p> + <p> + “All or none,” was Smoke's ultimatum. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, you two,” Wild Water said in a burst of confidence. “I'll be + perfectly honest with you, an' don't let it go any further. You know Miss + Arral an' I was engaged. Well, she's broken everything off. You know it. + Everybody knows it. It's for her I want them eggs.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” Shorty jeered. “It's clear an' plain why you want 'em with the + shells on. But I never thought it of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thought what?” + </p> + <p> + “It's low-down mean, that's what it is,” Shorty rushed on, virtuously + indignant. “I wouldn't wonder somebody filled you full of lead for it, an' + you'd deserve it, too.” + </p> + <p> + Wild Water began to flame toward the verge of one of his notorious + Berserker rages. His hands clenched until the cheap fork in one of them + began to bend, while his blue eyes flashed warning sparks. “Now look here, + Shorty, just what do you mean? If you think anything underhanded—” + </p> + <p> + “I mean what I mean,” Shorty retorted doggedly, “an' you bet your sweet + life I don't mean anything underhanded. Overhand's the only way to do it. + You can't throw 'em any other way.” + </p> + <p> + “Throw what?” + </p> + <p> + “Eggs, prunes, baseballs, anything. But Wild Water, you're makin' a + mistake. They ain't no crowd ever sat at the Opery House that'll stand for + it. Just because she's a actress is no reason you can publicly lambaste + her with hen-fruit.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment it seemed that Wild Water was going to burst or have + apoplexy. He gulped down a mouthful of scalding coffee and slowly + recovered himself. + </p> + <p> + “You're in wrong, Shorty,” he said with cold deliberation. “I'm not going + to throw eggs at her. Why, man,” he cried, with growing excitement, “I + want to give them eggs to her, on a platter, shirred—that's the way + she likes 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “I knowed I was wrong,” Shorty cried generously, “I knowed you couldn't do + a low-down trick like that.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right, Shorty,” Wild Water forgave him. “But let's get down to + business. You see why I want them eggs. I want 'em bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want 'em ninety-six hundred an' twenty dollars' worth?” Shorty + queried. + </p> + <p> + “It's a hold-up, that's what it is,” Wild Water declared irately. + </p> + <p> + “It's business,” Smoke retorted. “You don't think we're peddling eggs for + our health, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, listen to reason,” Wild Water pleaded. “I only want a couple of + dozen. I'll give you twenty apiece for 'em. What do I want with all the + rest of them eggs? I've went years in this country without eggs, an' I + guess I can keep on managin' without 'em somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't get het up about it,” Shorty counseled. “If you don't want 'em, + that settles it. We ain't a-forcin' 'em on you.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do want 'em,” Wild Water complained. + </p> + <p> + “Then you know what they'll cost you—ninety-six hundred an' twenty + dollars, an' if my figurin's wrong, I'll treat.” + </p> + <p> + “But maybe they won't turn the trick,” Wild Water objected. “Maybe Miss + Arral's lost her taste for eggs by this time.” + </p> + <p> + “I should say Miss Arral's worth the price of the eggs,” Smoke put in + quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Worth it!” Wild Water stood up in the heat of his eloquence. “She's worth + a million dollars. She's worth all I've got. She's worth all the dust in + the Klondike.” He sat down, and went on in a calmer voice. “But that ain't + no call for me to gamble ten thousand dollars on a breakfast for her. Now + I've got a proposition. Lend me a couple of dozen of them eggs. I'll turn + 'em over to Slavovitch. He'll feed 'em to her with my compliments. She + ain't smiled to me for a hundred years. If them eggs gets a smile for me, + I'll take the whole boiling off your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you sign a contract to that effect?” Smoke said quickly; for he knew + that Lucille Arral had agreed to smile. + </p> + <p> + Wild Water gasped. “You're almighty swift with business up here on the + hill,” he said, with a hint of a snarl. + </p> + <p> + “We're only accepting your own proposition,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “All right—bring on the paper—make it out, hard and fast,” + Wild Water cried in the anger of surrender. + </p> + <p> + Smoke immediately wrote out the document, wherein Wild Water agreed to + take every egg delivered to him at ten dollars per egg, provided that the + two dozen advanced to him brought about a reconciliation with Lucille + Arral. + </p> + <p> + Wild Water paused, with uplifted pen, as he was about to sign. “Hold on,” + he said. “When I buy eggs I buy good eggs.” + </p> + <p> + “They ain't a bad egg in the Klondike,” Shorty snorted. + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, if I find one bad egg you've got to come back with the ten + I paid for it.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” Smoke placated. “It's only fair.” + </p> + <p> + “An' every bad egg you come back with I'll eat,” Shorty declared. + </p> + <p> + Smoke inserted the word “good” in the contract, and Wild Water sullenly + signed, received the trial two dozen in a tin pail, pulled on his mittens, + and opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, you robbers,” he growled back at them, and slammed the door. + </p> + <p> + Smoke was a witness to the play next morning in Slavovitch's. He sat, as + Wild Water's guest, at the table adjoining Lucille Arral's. Almost to the + letter, as she had forecast it, did the scene come off. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you found any eggs yet?” she murmured plaintively to the waiter. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma'am,” came the answer. “They say somebody's cornered every egg in + Dawson. Mr. Slavovitch is trying to buy a few just especially for you. But + the fellow that's got the corner won't let loose.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this juncture that Wild Water beckoned the proprietor to him, + and, with one hand on his shoulder, drew his head down. “Look here, + Slavovitch,” Wild Water whispered hoarsely, “I turned over a couple of + dozen eggs to you last night. Where are they?” + </p> + <p> + “In the safe, all but that six I have all thawed and ready for you any + time you sing out.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't want 'em for myself,” Wild Water breathed in a still lower voice. + “Shir 'em up and present 'em to Miss Arral there.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll attend to it personally myself,” Slavovitch assured him. + </p> + <p> + “An' don't forget—compliments of me,” Wild Water concluded, relaxing + his detaining clutch on the proprietor's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Pretty Lucille Arral was gazing forlornly at the strip of breakfast bacon + and the tinned mashed potatoes on her plate when Slavovitch placed before + her two shirred eggs. + </p> + <p> + “Compliments of Mr. Wild Water,” they at the next table heard him say. + </p> + <p> + Smoke acknowledged to himself that it was a fine bit of acting—the + quick, joyous flash in the face of her, the impulsive turn of the head, + the spontaneous forerunner of a smile that was only checked by a superb + self-control which resolutely drew her face back so that she could say + something to the restaurant proprietor. + </p> + <p> + Smoke felt the kick of Wild Water's moccasined foot under the table. + </p> + <p> + “Will she eat 'em?—that's the question—will she eat 'em?” the + latter whispered agonizingly. + </p> + <p> + And with sidelong glances they saw Lucille Arral hesitate, almost push the + dish from her, then surrender to its lure. + </p> + <p> + “I'll take them eggs,” Wild Water said to Smoke. “The contract holds. Did + you see her? Did you see her! She almost smiled. I know her. It's all + fixed. Two more eggs to-morrow an' she'll forgive an' make up. If she + wasn't here I'd shake hands, Smoke, I'm that grateful. You ain't a robber; + you're a philanthropist.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke returned jubilantly up the hill to the cabin, only to find Shorty + playing solitaire in black despair. Smoke had long since learned that + whenever his partner got out the cards for solitaire it was a warning + signal that the bottom had dropped out of the world. + </p> + <p> + “Go 'way, don't talk to me,” was the first rebuff Smoke received. + </p> + <p> + But Shorty soon thawed into a freshet of speech. + </p> + <p> + “It's all off with the big Swede,” he groaned. “The corner's busted. + They'll be sellin' sherry an' egg in all the saloons to-morrow at a dollar + a flip. They ain't no starvin' orphan child in Dawson that won't be + wrappin' its tummy around eggs. What d'ye think I run into?—a geezer + with three thousan' eggs—d'ye get me? Three thousan', an' just + freighted in from Forty Mile.” + </p> + <p> + “Fairy stories,” Smoke doubted. + </p> + <p> + “Fairy hell! I seen them eggs. Gautereaux's his name—a whackin' big, + blue-eyed French-Canadian husky. He asked for you first, then took me to + the side and jabbed me straight to the heart. It was our cornerin' eggs + that got him started. He knowed about them three thousan' at Forty Mile + an' just went an' got 'em. 'Show 'em to me,' I says. An' he did. There was + his dog-teams, an' a couple of Indian drivers, restin' down the bank where + they'd just pulled in from Forty Mile. An' on the sleds was soap-boxes—teeny + wooden soap-boxes. + </p> + <p> + “We took one out behind a ice-jam in the middle of the river an' busted it + open. Eggs!—full of 'em, all packed in sawdust. Smoke, you an' me + lose. We've been gamblin'. D'ye know what he had the gall to say to me?—that + they was all ourn at ten dollars a egg. D'ye know what he was doin' when I + left his cabin?—drawin' a sign of eggs for sale. Said he'd give us + first choice, at ten a throw, till 2 P. M., an' after that, if we didn't + come across, he'd bust the market higher'n a kite. Said he wasn't no + business man, but that he knowed a good thing when he seen it—meanin' + you an' me, as I took it.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right,” Smoke said cheerfully. “Keep your shirt on an' let me + think a moment. Quick action and team play is all that's needed. I'll get + Wild Water here at two o'clock to take delivery of eggs. You buy that + Gautereaux's eggs. Try and make a bargain. Even if you pay ten dollars + apiece for them, Wild Water will take them off our hands at the same + price. If you can get them cheaper, why, we make a profit as well. Now go + to it. Have them here by not later than two o'clock. Borrow Colonel + Bowie's dogs and take our team. Have them here by two sharp.” + </p> + <p> + “Say, Smoke,” Shorty called, as his partner started down the hill. “Better + take an umbrella. I wouldn't be none surprised to see the weather rainin' + eggs before you get back.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke found Wild Water at the M. & M., and a stormy half-hour ensued. + </p> + <p> + “I warn you we've picked up some more eggs,” Smoke said, after Wild Water + had agreed to bring his dust to the cabin at two o'clock and pay on + delivery. + </p> + <p> + “You're luckier at finding eggs than me,” Wild Water admitted. “Now, how + many eggs have you got now?—an' how much dust do I tote up the + hill?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke consulted his notebook. “As it stands now, according to Shorty's + figures, we've three thousand nine hundred and sixty-two eggs. Multiply by + ten—” + </p> + <p> + “Forty thousand dollars!” Wild Water bellowed. “You said there was only + something like nine hundred eggs. It's a stickup! I won't stand for it!” + </p> + <p> + Smoke drew the contract from his pocket and pointed to the PAY ON + DELIVERY. “No mention is made of the number of eggs to be delivered. You + agreed to pay ten dollars for every egg we delivered to you. Well, we've + got the eggs, and a signed contract is a signed contract. Honestly, + though, Wild Water, we didn't know about those other eggs until afterward. + Then we had to buy them in order to make our corner good.” + </p> + <p> + For five long minutes, in choking silence, Wild Water fought a battle with + himself, then reluctantly gave in. + </p> + <p> + “I'm in bad,” he said brokenly. “The landscape's fair sproutin' eggs. An' + the quicker I get out the better. There might come a landslide of 'em. + I'll be there at two o'clock. But forty thousand dollars!” + </p> + <p> + “It's only thirty-nine thousand six hundred an' twenty,” Smoke corrected. + “It'll weigh two hundred pounds,” Wild Water raved on. “I'll have to + freight it up with a dog-team.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll lend you our teams to carry the eggs away,” Smoke volunteered. + </p> + <p> + “But where'll I cache 'em? Never mind. I'll be there. But as long as I + live I'll never eat another egg. I'm full sick of 'em.” + </p> + <p> + At half-past one, doubling the dog-teams for the steep pitch of the hill, + Shorty arrived with Gautereaux's eggs. “We dang near double our winnings,” + Shorty told Smoke, as they piled the soap-boxes inside the cabin. “I holds + 'm down to eight dollars, an' after he cussed loco in French he falls for + it. Now that's two dollars clear profit to us for each egg, an' they're + three thousan' of 'em. I paid 'm in full. Here's the receipt.” + </p> + <p> + While Smoke got out the gold-scales and prepared for business, Shorty + devoted himself to calculation. + </p> + <p> + “There's the figgers,” he announced triumphantly. “We win twelve thousan' + nine hundred an' seventy dollars. An' we don't do Wild Water no harm. He + wins Miss Arral. Besides, he gets all them eggs. It's sure a + bargain-counter all around. Nobody loses.” + </p> + <p> + “Even Gautereaux's twenty-four thousand to the good,” Smoke laughed, + “minus, of course, what the eggs and the freighting cost him. And if Wild + Water plays the corner, he may make a profit out of the eggs himself.” + </p> + <p> + Promptly at two o'clock, Shorty, peeping, saw Wild Water coming up the + hill. When he entered he was brisk and businesslike. He took off his big + bearskin coat, hung it on a nail, and sat down at the table. + </p> + <p> + “Bring on them eggs, you pirates,” he commenced. “An' after this day, if + you know what's good for you, never mention eggs to me again.” + </p> + <p> + They began on the miscellaneous assortment of the original corner, all + three men counting. When two hundred had been reached, Wild Water suddenly + cracked an egg on the edge of the table and opened it deftly with his + thumbs. + </p> + <p> + “Hey! Hold on!” Shorty objected. + </p> + <p> + “It's my egg, ain't it?” Wild Water snarled. “I'm paying ten dollars for + it, ain't I? But I ain't buying no pig in a poke. When I cough up ten + bucks an egg I want to know what I'm gettin'.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don't like it, I'll eat it,” Shorty volunteered maliciously. + </p> + <p> + Wild Water looked and smelled and shook his head. “No, you don't, Shorty. + That's a good egg. Gimme a pail. I'm goin' to eat it myself for supper.” + </p> + <p> + Thrice again Wild Water cracked good eggs experimentally and put them in + the pail beside him. + </p> + <p> + “Two more than you figgered, Shorty,” he said at the end of the count. + “Nine hundred an' sixty-four, not sixty-two.” + </p> + <p> + “My mistake,” Shorty acknowledged handsomely. “We'll throw 'em in for good + measure.” + </p> + <p> + “Guess you can afford to,” Wild Water accepted grimly. “Pass the batch. + Nine thousan' six hundred an' twenty dollars. I'll pay for it now. Write a + receipt, Smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not count the rest,” Smoke suggested, “and pay all at once?” + </p> + <p> + Wild Water shook his head. “I'm no good at figgers. One batch at a time + an' no mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + Going to his fur coat, from each of the side pockets he drew forth two + sacks of dust, so rotund and long that they resembled bologna sausages. + When the first batch had been paid for, there remained in the gold-sacks + not more than several hundred dollars. + </p> + <p> + A soap-box was carried to the table, and the count of the three thousand + began. At the end of one hundred, Wild Water struck an egg sharply against + the edge of the table. There was no crack. The resultant sound was like + that of the striking of a sphere of solid marble. + </p> + <p> + “Frozen solid,” he remarked, striking more sharply. + </p> + <p> + He held the egg up, and they could see the shell powdered to minute + fragments along the line of impact. + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” said Shorty. “It ought to be solid, seein' it has just been + freighted up from Forty Mile. It'll take an ax to bust it.” + </p> + <p> + “Me for the ax,” said Wild Water. + </p> + <p> + Smoke brought the ax, and Wild Water, with the clever hand and eye of the + woodsman, split the egg cleanly in half. The appearance of the egg's + interior was anything but satisfactory. Smoke felt a premonitory chill. + Shorty was more valiant. He held one of the halves to his nose. + </p> + <p> + “Smells all right,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “But it looks all wrong,” Wild Water contended. “An' how can it smell when + the smell's frozen along with the rest of it? Wait a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He put the two halves into a frying-pan and placed the latter on the front + lid of the hot stove. Then the three men, with distended, questing + nostrils, waited in silence. Slowly an unmistakable odor began to drift + through the room. Wild Water forbore to speak, and Shorty remained dumb + despite conviction. + </p> + <p> + “Throw it out,” Smoke cried, gasping. + </p> + <p> + “What's the good?” asked Wild Water. “We've got to sample the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in this cabin.” Smoke coughed and conquered a qualm. “Chop them open, + and we can test by looking at them. Throw it out, Shorty—Throw it + out! Phew! And leave the door open!” + </p> + <p> + Box after box was opened; egg after egg, chosen at random, was chopped in + two; and every egg carried the same message of hopeless, irremediable + decay. + </p> + <p> + “I won't ask you to eat 'em, Shorty,” Wild Water jeered, “an' if you don't + mind, I can't get outa here too quick. My contract called for GOOD eggs. + If you'll loan me a sled an' team I'll haul them good ones away before + they get contaminated.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke helped in loading the sled. Shorty sat at the table, the cards laid + before him for solitaire. + </p> + <p> + “Say, how long you been holdin' that corner?” was Wild Water's parting + gibe. + </p> + <p> + Smoke made no reply, and, with one glance at his absorbed partner, + proceeded to fling the soap boxes out into the snow. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Shorty, how much did you say you paid for that three thousand?” + Smoke queried gently. + </p> + <p> + “Eight dollars. Go 'way. Don't talk to me. I can figger as well as you. We + lose seventeen thousan' on the flutter, if anybody should ride up on a + dog-sled an' ask you. I figgered that out while waitin' for the first egg + to smell.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke pondered a few minutes, then again broke silence. “Say, Shorty. + Forty thousand dollars gold weighs two hundred pounds. Wild Water borrowed + our sled and team to haul away his eggs. He came up the hill without a + sled. Those two sacks of dust in his coat pockets weighed about twenty + pounds each. The understanding was cash on delivery. He brought enough + dust to pay for the good eggs. He never expected to pay for those three + thousand. He knew they were bad. Now how did he know they were bad? What + do you make of it, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + Shorty gathered the cards, started to shuffle a new deal, then paused. + “Huh! That ain't nothin'. A child could answer it. We lose seventeen + thousan'. Wild Water wins seventeen thousan'. Them eggs of Gautereaux's + was Wild Water's all the time. Anything else you're curious to know?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why in the name of common sense didn't you find out whether those + eggs were good before you paid for them?” + </p> + <p> + “Just as easy as the first question. Wild Water swung the bunco game timed + to seconds. I hadn't no time to examine them eggs. I had to hustle to get + 'em here for delivery. An' now, Smoke, lemme ask you one civil question. + What did you say was the party's name that put this egg corner idea into + your head?” + </p> + <p> + Shorty had lost the sixteenth consecutive game of solitaire, and Smoke was + casting about to begin the preparation of supper, when Colonel Bowie + knocked at the door, handed Smoke a letter, and went on to his own cabin. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see his face?” Shorty raved. “He was almost bustin' to keep it + straight. It's the big ha! ha! for you an' me, Smoke. We won't never dast + show our faces again in Dawson.” + </p> + <p> + The letter was from Wild Water, and Smoke read it aloud: + </p> + <p> + Dear Smoke and Shorty: I write to ask, with compliments of the season, + your presence at a supper to-night at Slavovitch's joint. Miss Arral will + be there and so will Gautereaux. Him and me was pardners down at Circle + five years ago. He is all right and is going to be best man. About them + eggs. They come into the country four years back. They was bad when they + come in. They was bad when they left California. They always was bad. They + stopped at Carluk one winter, and one winter at Nutlik, and last winter at + Forty Mile, where they was sold for storage. And this winter I guess they + stop at Dawson. Don't keep them in a hot room. Lucille says to say you and + her and me has sure made some excitement for Dawson. And I say the drinks + is on you, and that goes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Respectfully your friend, + W. W. +</pre> + <p> + “Well? What have you got to say?” Smoke queried. “We accept the + invitation, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “I got one thing to say,” Shorty answered. “An' that is Wild Water won't + never suffer if he goes broke. He's a good actor—a gosh-blamed good + actor. An' I got another thing to say: my figgers is all wrong. Wild Water + wins seventeen thousan' all right, but he wins more 'n that. You an' me + has made him a present of every good egg in the Klondike—nine + hundred an' sixty-four of 'em, two thrown in for good measure. An' he was + that ornery, mean cussed that he packed off the three opened ones in the + pail. An' I got a last thing to say. You an' me is legitimate prospectors + an' practical gold-miners. But when it comes to fi-nance we're sure the + fattest suckers that ever fell for the get-rich-quick bunco. After this + it's you an' me for the high rocks an' tall timber, an' if you ever + mention eggs to me we dissolve pardnership there an' then. Get me?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI. THE TOWN-SITE OF TRA-LEE + </h2> + <p> + Smoke and Shorty encountered each other, going in opposite directions, at + the corner where stood the Elkhorn saloon. The former's face wore a + pleased expression, and he was walking briskly. Shorty, on the other hand, + was slouching along in a depressed and indeterminate fashion. + </p> + <p> + “Whither away?” Smoke challenged gaily. + </p> + <p> + “Danged if I know,” came the disconsolate answer. “Wisht I did. They ain't + nothin' to take me anywheres. I've set two hours in the deadest game of + draw—nothing excitin', no hands, an' broke even. Played a rubber of + cribbage with Skiff Mitchell for the drinks, an' now I'm that languid for + somethin' doin' that I'm perambulatin' the streets on the chance of seein' + a dogfight, or a argument, or somethin'.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got something better on hand,” Smoke answered. “That's why I was + looking for you. Come on along.” + </p> + <p> + “Now?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Where to?” + </p> + <p> + “Across the river to make a call on old Dwight Sanderson.” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of him,” Shorty said dejectedly. “An' never heard of no one + living across the river anyway. What's he want to live there for? Ain't he + got no sense?” + </p> + <p> + “He's got something to sell,” Smoke laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Dogs? A gold-mine? Tobacco? Rubber boots?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head to each question. “Come along on and find out, + because I'm going to buy it from him on a spec, and if you want you can + come in half.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me it's eggs!” Shorty cried, his face twisted into an + expression of facetious and sarcastic alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Come on along,” Smoke told him. “And I'll give you ten guesses while + we're crossing the ice.” + </p> + <p> + They dipped down the high bank at the foot of the street and came out upon + the ice-covered Yukon. Three-quarters of a mile away, directly opposite, + the other bank of the stream uprose in precipitous bluffs hundreds of feet + in height. Toward these bluffs, winding and twisting in and out among + broken and upthrown blocks of ice, ran a slightly traveled trail. Shorty + trudged at Smoke's heels, beguiling the time with guesses at what Dwight + Sanderson had to sell. + </p> + <p> + “Reindeer? Copper-mine or brick-yard? That's one guess. Bear-skins, or any + kind of skins? Lottery tickets? A potato-ranch?” + </p> + <p> + “Getting near it,” Smoke encouraged. “And better than that.” + </p> + <p> + “Two potato-ranches? A cheese-factory? A moss-farm?” + </p> + <p> + “That's not so bad, Shorty. It's not a thousand miles away.” + </p> + <p> + “A quarry?” + </p> + <p> + “That's as near as the moss-farm and the potato-ranch.” + </p> + <p> + “Hold on. Let me think. I got one guess comin'.” Ten silent minutes + passed. “Say, Smoke, I ain't goin' to use that last guess. When this thing + you're buyin' sounds like a potato-ranch, a moss-farm, and a stone-quarry, + I quit. An' I don't go in on the deal till I see it an' size it up. What + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you'll see the cards on the table soon enough. Kindly cast your + eyes up there. Do you see the smoke from that cabin? That's where Dwight + Sanderson lives. He's holding down a town-site location.” + </p> + <p> + “What else is he holdin' down?” + </p> + <p> + “That's all,” Smoke laughed. “Except rheumatism. I hear he's been + suffering from it.” + </p> + <p> + “Say!” Shorty's hand flashed out and with an abrupt shoulder grip brought + his comrade to a halt. “You ain't telling me you're buyin' a town-site at + this fallin'-off place?” + </p> + <p> + “That's your tenth guess, and you win. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + “But wait a moment,” Shorty pleaded. “Look at it—nothin' but bluffs + an' slides, all up-and-down. Where could the town stand?” + </p> + <p> + “Search me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you ain't buyin' it for a town?” + </p> + <p> + “But Dwight Sanderson's selling it for a town,” Smoke baffled. “Come on. + We've got to climb this slide.” + </p> + <p> + The slide was steep, and a narrow trail zigzagged up it on a formidable + Jacob's ladder. Shorty moaned and groaned over the sharp corners and the + steep pitches. + </p> + <p> + “Think of a town-site here. They ain't a flat space big enough for a + postage-stamp. An' it's the wrong side of the river. All the freightin' + goes the other way. Look at Dawson there. Room to spread for forty + thousand more people. Say, Smoke. You're a meat-eater. I know that. An' I + know you ain't buyin' it for a town. Then what in Heaven's name are you + buyin' it for?” + </p> + <p> + “To sell, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “But other folks ain't as crazy as old man Sanderson an' you.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe not in the same way, Shorty. Now I'm going to take this town-site, + break it up in parcels, and sell it to a lot of sane people who live over + in Dawson.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! All Dawson's still laughing at you an' me an' them eggs. You want to + make 'em laugh some more, hey?” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly do.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's too danged expensive, Smoke. I helped you make 'em laugh on the + eggs, an' my share of the laugh cost me nearly nine thousan' dollars.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. You don't have to come in on this. The profits will be all + mine, but you've got to help me just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I'll help all right. An' they can laugh at me some more. But nary a + ounce do I drop this time. + </p> + <p> + “What's old Sanderson holdin' it at? A couple of hundred?” + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousand. I ought to get it for five.” + </p> + <p> + “Wisht I was a minister,” Shorty breathed fervently. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “So I could preach the gosh-dangdest, eloquentest sermon on a text you may + have hearn—to wit: a fool an' his money.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” they heard Dwight Sanderson yell irritably, when they knocked + at his door, and they entered to find him squatted by a stone fireplace + and pounding coffee wrapped in a piece of flour-sacking. + </p> + <p> + “What d'ye want?” he demanded harshly, emptying the pounded coffee into + the coffee-pot that stood on the coals near the front of the fireplace. + </p> + <p> + “To talk business,” Smoke answered. “You've a town-site located here, I + understand. What do you want for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousand dollars,” came the answer. “And now that I've told you, you + can laugh, and get out. There's the door. Good-by.” + </p> + <p> + “But I don't want to laugh. I know plenty of funnier things to do than to + climb up this cliff of yours. I want to buy your town-site.” + </p> + <p> + “You do, eh? Well, I'm glad to hear sense.” Sanderson came over and sat + down facing his visitors, his hands resting on the table and his eyes + cocking apprehensively toward the coffee-pot. “I've told you my price, and + I ain't ashamed to tell you again—ten thousand. And you can laugh or + buy, it's all one to me.” + </p> + <p> + To show his indifference he drummed with his knobby knuckles on the table + and stared at the coffee-pot. A minute later he began to hum a monotonous + “Tra-la-loo, tra-la-lee, tra-la-lee, tra-la-loo.” + </p> + <p> + “Now look here, Mr. Sanderson,” said Smoke. “This town-site isn't worth + ten thousand. If it was worth that much it would be worth a hundred + thousand just as easily. If it isn't worth a hundred thousand—and + you know it isn't—then it isn't worth ten cents.” + </p> + <p> + Sanderson drummed with his knuckles and hummed, “Tra-la-loo, tra-la-lee,” + until the coffee-pot boiled over. Settling it with a part cup of cold + water, and placing it to one side of the warm hearth, he resumed his seat. + “How much will you offer?” he asked of Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty groaned. + </p> + <p> + Again came an interval of drumming and of tra-loo-ing and tra-lee-ing. + </p> + <p> + “You ain't no fool,” Sanderson announced to Smoke. “You said if it wasn't + worth a hundred thousand it wasn't worth ten cents. Yet you offer five + thousand for it. Then it IS worth a hundred thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't make twenty cents out of it,” Smoke replied heatedly. “Not if + you stayed here till you rot.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll make it out of you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you won't.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I reckon I'll stay an' rot,” Sanderson answered with an air of + finality. + </p> + <p> + He took no further notice of his guests, and went about his culinary tasks + as if he were alone. When he had warmed over a pot of beans and a slab of + sour-dough bread, he set the table for one and proceeded to eat. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you,” Shorty murmured. “We ain't a bit hungry. We et just + before we come.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's see your papers,” Smoke said at last. Sanderson fumbled under the + head of his bunk and tossed out a package of documents. “It's all tight + and right,” he said. “That long one there, with the big seals, come all + the way from Ottawa. Nothing territorial about that. The national Canadian + government cinches me in the possession of this town-site.” + </p> + <p> + “How many lots you sold in the two years you've had it?” Shorty queried. + </p> + <p> + “None of your business,” Sanderson answered sourly. “There ain't no law + against a man living alone on his town-site if he wants to.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll give you five thousand,” Smoke said. Sanderson shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know which is the craziest,” Shorty lamented. “Come outside a + minute, Smoke. I want to whisper to you.” + </p> + <p> + Reluctantly Smoke yielded to his partner's persuasions. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't it never entered your head,” Shorty said, as they stood in the snow + outside the door, “that they's miles an' miles of cliffs on both sides of + this fool town-site that don't belong to nobody an' that you can have for + the locatin' and stakin'?” + </p> + <p> + “They won't do,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “Why won't they?” + </p> + <p> + “It makes you wonder, with all those miles and miles, why I'm buying this + particular spot, doesn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “It sure does,” Shorty agreed. + </p> + <p> + “And that's the very point,” Smoke went on triumphantly. “If it makes you + wonder, it will make others wonder. And when they wonder they'll come + a-running. By your own wondering you prove it's sound psychology. Now, + Shorty, listen to me; I'm going to hand Dawson a package that will knock + the spots out of the egg-laugh. Come on inside.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” said Sanderson, as they re-entered. “I thought I'd seen the last + of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Now what is your lowest figure?” Smoke asked. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll give you ten thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, I'll sell at that figure. It's all I wanted in the first + place. But when will you pay the dust over?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow, at the Northwest Bank. But there are two other things I want + for that ten thousand. In the first place, when you receive your money you + pull down the river to Forty Mile and stay there the rest of the winter.” + </p> + <p> + “That's easy. What else?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to pay you twenty-five thousand, and you rebate me fifteen of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm agreeable.” Sanderson turned to Shorty. “Folks said I was a fool when + I come over here an' town-sited,” he jeered. “Well, I'm a ten thousand + dollar fool, ain't I?” + </p> + <p> + “The Klondike's sure full of fools,” was all Shorty could retort, “an' + when they's so many of 'em some has to be lucky, don't they?” + </p> + <p> + Next morning the legal transfer of Dwight Sanderson's town-site was made—“henceforth + to be known as the town-site of Tra-Lee,” Smoke incorporated in the deed. + Also, at the Northwest Bank, twenty-five thousand of Smoke's gold was + weighed out by the cashier, while half a dozen casual onlookers noted the + weighing, the amount, and the recipient. + </p> + <p> + In a mining-camp all men are suspicious. Any untoward act of any man is + likely to be the cue to a secret gold strike, whether the untoward act be + no more than a hunting trip for moose or a stroll after dark to observe + the aurora borealis. And when it became known that so prominent a figure + as Smoke Bellew had paid twenty-five thousand dollars to old Dwight + Sanderson, Dawson wanted to know what he had paid it for. What had Dwight + Sanderson, starving on his abandoned town-site, ever owned that was worth + twenty-five thousand? In lieu of an answer, Dawson was justified in + keeping Smoke in feverish contemplation. + </p> + <p> + By mid-afternoon it was common knowledge that several score of men had + made up light stampeding-packs and cached them in the convenient saloons + along Main Street. Wherever Smoke moved, he was the observed of many eyes. + And as proof that he was taken seriously, not one man of the many of his + acquaintance had the effrontery to ask him about his deal with Dwight + Sanderson. On the other hand, no one mentioned eggs to Smoke. Shorty was + under similar surveillance and delicacy of friendliness. + </p> + <p> + “Makes me feel like I'd killed somebody, or had smallpox, the way they + watch me an' seem afraid to speak,” Shorty confessed, when he chanced to + meet Smoke in front of the Elkhorn. “Look at Bill Saltman there acrost the + way—just dyin' to look, an' keepin' his eyes down the street all the + time. Wouldn't think he'd knowed you an' me existed, to look at him. But I + bet you the drinks, Smoke, if you an' me flop around the corner quick, + like we was goin' somewheres, an' then turn back from around the next + corner, that we run into him a-hikin' hell-bent.” + </p> + <p> + They tried the trick, and, doubling back around the second corner, + encountered Saltman swinging a long trail-stride in pursuit. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Bill,” Smoke greeted. “Which way?” + </p> + <p> + “Hello. Just a-strollin',” Saltman answered, “just a-strollin'. Weather's + fine, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” Shorty jeered. “If you call that strollin', what might you walk + real fast at?” + </p> + <p> + When Shorty fed the dogs that evening, he was keenly conscious that from + the encircling darkness a dozen pairs of eyes were boring in upon him. And + when he stick-tied the dogs, instead of letting them forage free through + the night, he knew that he had administered another jolt to the + nervousness of Dawson. + </p> + <p> + According to program, Smoke ate supper downtown and then proceeded to + enjoy himself. Wherever he appeared, he was the center of interest, and he + purposely made the rounds. Saloons filled up after his entrance and + emptied following upon his departure. If he bought a stack of chips at a + sleepy roulette-table, inside five minutes a dozen players were around + him. He avenged himself, in a small way, on Lucille Arral, by getting up + and sauntering out of the Opera House just as she came on to sing her most + popular song. In three minutes two-thirds of her audience had vanished + after him. + </p> + <p> + At one in the morning he walked along an unusually populous Main Street + and took the turning that led up the hill to his cabin. And when he paused + on the ascent, he could hear behind him the crunch of moccasins in the + snow. + </p> + <p> + For an hour the cabin was in darkness, then he lighted a candle, and, + after a delay sufficient for a man to dress in, he and Shorty opened the + door and began harnessing the dogs. As the light from the cabin flared out + upon them and their work, a soft whistle went up from not far away. This + whistle was repeated down the hill. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to it,” Smoke chuckled. “They've relayed on us and are passing the + word down to town. I'll bet you there are forty men right now rolling out + of their blankets and climbing into their pants.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't folks fools,” Shorty giggled back. “Say, Smoke, they ain't nothin' + in hard graft. A geezer that'd work his hands these days is a—well, + a geezer. The world's sure bustin' full an' dribblin' over the edges with + fools a-honin' to be separated from their dust. An' before we start down + the hill I want to announce, if you're still agreeable, that I come in + half on this deal.” + </p> + <p> + The sled was lightly loaded with a sleeping- and a grub-outfit. A small + coil of steel cable protruded inconspicuously from underneath a grub-sack, + while a crowbar lay half hidden along the bottom of the sled next to the + lashings. + </p> + <p> + Shorty fondled the cable with a swift-passing mitten, and gave a last + affectionate touch to the crowbar. “Huh!” he whispered. “I'd sure do some + tall thinking myself if I seen them objects on a sled on a dark night.” + </p> + <p> + They drove the dogs down the hill with cautious silence, and when, emerged + on the flat, they turned the team north along Main Street toward the + sawmill and directly away from the business part of town, they observed + even greater caution. They had seen no one, yet when this change of + direction was initiated, out of the dim starlit darkness behind arose a + whistle. Past the sawmill and the hospital, at lively speed, they went for + a quarter of a mile. Then they turned about and headed back over the + ground they had just covered. At the end of the first hundred yards they + barely missed colliding with five men racing along at a quick dog-trot. + All were slightly stooped to the weight of stampeding-packs. One of them + stopped Smoke's lead-dog, and the rest clustered around. + </p> + <p> + “Seen a sled goin' the other way?” was asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nope,” Smoke answered. “Is that you, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll be danged!” Bill Saltman ejaculated in honest surprise. “If it + ain't Smoke!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing out this time of night?” Smoke inquired. “Strolling?” + </p> + <p> + Before Bill Saltman could make reply, two running men joined the group. + These were followed by several more, while the crunch of feet on the snow + heralded the imminent arrival of many others. + </p> + <p> + “Who are your friends?” Smoke asked. “Where's the stampede?” + </p> + <p> + Saltman, lighting his pipe, which was impossible for him to enjoy with + lungs panting from the run, did not reply. The ruse of the match was too + obviously for the purpose of seeing the sled to be misunderstood, and + Smoke noted every pair of eyes focus on the coil of cable and the crowbar. + Then the match went out. + </p> + <p> + “Just heard a rumor, that's all, just a rumor,” Saltman mumbled with + ponderous secretiveness. + </p> + <p> + “You might let Shorty and me in on it,” Smoke urged. + </p> + <p> + Somebody snickered sarcastically in the background. + </p> + <p> + “Where are YOU bound?” Saltman demanded. + </p> + <p> + “And who are you?” Smoke countered. “Committee of safety?” + </p> + <p> + “Just interested, just interested,” Saltman said. + </p> + <p> + “You bet your sweet life we're interested,” another voice spoke up out of + the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Say,” Shorty put in, “I wonder who's feelin' the foolishest?” + </p> + <p> + Everybody laughed nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Shorty; we'll be getting along,” Smoke said, mushing the dogs. + </p> + <p> + The crowd formed in behind and followed. + </p> + <p> + “Say, ain't you-all made a mistake?” Shorty gibed. “When we met you you + was goin', an' now you're comin' without bein' anywheres. Have you lost + your tag?” + </p> + <p> + “You go to the devil,” was Saltman's courtesy. “We go and come just as we + danged feel like. We don't travel with tags.” + </p> + <p> + And the sled, with Smoke in the lead and Shorty at the pole, went on down + Main Street escorted by three score men, each of whom, on his back, bore a + stampeding-pack. It was three in the morning, and only the all-night + rounders saw the procession and were able to tell Dawson about it next + day. + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later, the hill was climbed and the dogs unharnessed at the + cabin door, the sixty stampeders grimly attendant. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, fellows,” Smoke called, as he closed the door. + </p> + <p> + In five minutes the candle was put out, but before half an hour had passed + Smoke and Shorty emerged softly, and without lights began harnessing the + dogs. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Smoke!” Saltman said, stepping near enough for them to see the + loom of his form. + </p> + <p> + “Can't shake you, Bill, I see,” Smoke replied cheerfully. “Where're your + friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone to have a drink. They left me to keep an eye on you, and keep it I + will. What's in the wind anyway, Smoke? You can't shake us, so you might + as well let us in. We're all your friends. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “There are times when you can let your friends in,” Smoke evaded, “and + times when you can't. And, Bill, this is one of the times when we can't. + You'd better go to bed. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Ain't goin' to be no good-night, Smoke. You don't know us. We're + woodticks.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke sighed. “Well, Bill, if you WILL have your will, I guess you'll have + to have it. Come on, Shorty, we can't fool around any longer.” + </p> + <p> + Saltman emitted a shrill whistle as the sled started, and swung in behind. + From down the hill and across the flat came the answering whistles of the + relays. Shorty was at the gee-pole, and Smoke and Saltman walked side by + side. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Bill,” Smoke said. “I'll make you a proposition. Do you want + to come in alone on this?” + </p> + <p> + Saltman did not hesitate. “An' throw the gang down? No, sir. We'll all + come in.” + </p> + <p> + “You first, then,” Smoke exclaimed, lurching into a clinch and tipping the + other into deep snow beside the trail. + </p> + <p> + Shorty hawed the dogs and swung the team to the south on the trail that + led among the scattered cabins on the rolling slopes to the rear of + Dawson. Smoke and Saltman, locked together, rolled in the snow. Smoke + considered himself in gilt-edged condition, but Saltman outweighed him by + fifty pounds of clean, trail-hardened muscle and repeatedly mastered him. + Time and time again he got Smoke on his back, and Smoke lay complacently + and rested. But each time Saltman attempted to get off him and get away, + Smoke reached out a detaining, tripping hand that brought about a new + clinch and wrestle. + </p> + <p> + “You can go some,” Saltman acknowledged, panting at the end of ten + minutes, as he sat astride Smoke's chest. “But I down you every time.” + </p> + <p> + “And I hold you every time,” Smoke panted back. “That's what I'm here for, + just to hold you. Where do you think Shorty's getting to all this time?” + </p> + <p> + Saltman made a wild effort to go clear, and all but succeeded. Smoke + gripped his ankle and threw him in a headlong tumble. From down the hill + came anxious questioning whistles. Saltman sat up and whistled a shrill + answer, and was grappled by Smoke, who rolled him face upward and sat + astride his chest, his knees resting on Saltman's biceps, his hands on + Saltman's shoulders and holding him down. And in this position the + stampeders found them. Smoke laughed and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Well, good-night, fellows,” he said, and started down the hill, with + sixty exasperated and grimly determined stampeders at his heels. + </p> + <p> + He turned north past the sawmill and the hospital and took the river trail + along the precipitous bluffs at the base of Moosehide Mountain. Circling + the Indian village, he held on to the mouth of Moose Creek, then turned + and faced his pursuers. + </p> + <p> + “You make me tired,” he said, with a good imitation of a snarl. + </p> + <p> + “Hope we ain't a-forcin' you,” Saltman murmured politely. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, not at all,” Smoke snarled with an even better imitation, as he + passed among them on the back-trail to Dawson. Twice he attempted to cross + the trailless icejams of the river, still resolutely followed, and both + times he gave up and returned to the Dawson shore. Straight down Main + Street he trudged, crossing the ice of Klondike River to Klondike City and + again retracing to Dawson. At eight o'clock, as gray dawn began to show, + he led his weary gang to Slavovitch's restaurant, where tables were at a + premium for breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night fellows,” he said, as he paid his reckoning. + </p> + <p> + And again he said good-night, as he took the climb of the hill. In the + clear light of day they did not follow him, contenting themselves with + watching him up the hill to his cabin. + </p> + <p> + For two days Smoke lingered about town, continually under vigilant + espionage. Shorty, with the sled and dogs, had disappeared. Neither + travelers up and down the Yukon, nor from Bonanza, Eldorado, nor the + Klondike, had seen him. Remained only Smoke, who, soon or late, was + certain to try to connect with his missing partner; and upon Smoke + everybody's attention was centered. On the second night he did not leave + his cabin, putting out the lamp at nine in the evening and setting the + alarm for two next morning. The watch outside heard the alarm go off, so + that when, half an hour later, he emerged from the cabin, he found waiting + for him a band, not of sixty men, but of at least three hundred. A flaming + aurora borealis lighted the scene, and, thus hugely escorted, he walked + down to town and entered the Elkhorn. The place was immediately packed and + jammed by an anxious and irritated multitude that bought drinks, and for + four weary hours watched Smoke play cribbage with his old friend Breck. + Shortly after six in the morning, with an expression on his face of + commingled hatred and gloom, seeing no one, recognizing no one, Smoke left + the Elkhorn and went up Main Street, behind him the three hundred, formed + in disorderly ranks, chanting: “Hay-foot! Straw-foot! Hep! Hep! Hep!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, fellows,” he said bitterly, at the edge of the Yukon bank + where the winter trail dipped down. “I'm going to get breakfast and then + go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + The three hundred shouted that they were with him, and followed him out + upon the frozen river on the direct path he took for Tra-Lee. At seven in + the morning he led his stampeding cohort up the zigzag trail, across the + face of the slide, that led to Dwight Sanderson's cabin. The light of a + candle showed through the parchment-paper window, and smoke curled from + the chimney. Shorty threw open the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come on in, Smoke,” he greeted. “Breakfast's ready. Who-all are your + friends?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke turned about on the threshold. “Well, good-night, you fellows. Hope + you enjoyed your pasear!” + </p> + <p> + “Hold on a moment, Smoke,” Bill Saltman cried, his voice keen with + disappointment. “Want to talk with you a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Fire away,” Smoke answered genially. + </p> + <p> + “What'd you pay old Sanderson twenty-five thousan' for? Will you answer + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Bill, you give me a pain,” was Smoke's reply. “I came over here for a + country residence, so to say, and here are you and a gang trying to + cross-examine me when I'm looking for peace an' quietness an' breakfast. + What's a country residence good for, except for peace and quietness?” + </p> + <p> + “You ain't answered the question,” Bill Saltman came back with rigid + logic. + </p> + <p> + “And I'm not going to, Bill. That affair is peculiarly a personal affair + between Dwight Sanderson and me. Any other question?” + </p> + <p> + “How about that crowbar an' steel cable then, what you had on your sled + the other night?” + </p> + <p> + “It's none of your blessed and ruddy business, Bill. Though if Shorty here + wants to tell you about it, he can.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” Shorty cried, springing eagerly into the breach. His mouth opened, + then he faltered and turned to his partner. “Smoke, confidentially, just + between you an' me, I don't think it IS any of their darn business. Come + on in. The life's gettin' boiled outa that coffee.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed and the three hundred sagged into forlorn and grumbling + groups. + </p> + <p> + “Say, Saltman,” one man said, “I thought you was goin' to lead us to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life,” Saltman answered crustily. “I said Smoke would lead us + to it.” + </p> + <p> + “An' this is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You know as much about it as me, an' we all know Smoke's got something + salted down somewheres. Or else for what did he pay Sanderson the + twenty-five thousand? Not for this mangy town-site, that's sure an' + certain.” + </p> + <p> + A chorus of cries affirmed Saltman's judgment. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what are we goin' to do now?” someone queried dolefully. + </p> + <p> + “Me for one for breakfast,” Wild Water Charley said cheerfully. “You led + us up a blind alley this time, Bill.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I didn't,” Saltman objected. “Smoke led us. An' just the same, + what about them twenty-five thousand?” + </p> + <p> + At half-past eight, when daylight had grown strong, Shorty carefully + opened the door and peered out. “Shucks,” he exclaimed. “They-all's hiked + back to Dawson. I thought they was goin' to camp here.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't worry; they'll come sneaking back,” Smoke reassured him. “If I + don't miss my guess you'll see half Dawson over here before we're done + with it. Now jump in and lend me a hand. We've got work to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, for Heaven's sake put me on,” Shorty complained, when, at the end of + an hour, he surveyed the result of their toil—a windlass in the + corner of the cabin, with an endless rope that ran around double + logrollers. + </p> + <p> + Smoke turned it with a minimum of effort, and the rope slipped and + creaked. “Now, Shorty, you go outside and tell me what it sounds like.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty, listening at the closed door, heard all the sounds of a windlass + hoisting a load, and caught himself unconsciously attempting to estimate + the depth of shaft out of which this load was being hoisted. Next came a + pause, and in his mind's eye he saw the bucket swinging short to the + windlass. Then he heard the quick lower-away and the dull sound as of the + bucket coming to abrupt rest on the edge of the shaft. He threw open the + door, beaming. + </p> + <p> + “I got you,” he cried. “I almost fell for it myself. What next?” + </p> + <p> + The next was the dragging into the cabin of a dozen sled-loads of rock. + And through an exceedingly busy day there were many other nexts. + </p> + <p> + “Now you run the dogs over to Dawson this evening,” Smoke instructed, when + supper was finished. “Leave them with Breck. He'll take care of them. + They'll be watching what you do, so get Breck to go to the A. C. Company + and buy up all the blasting-powder—there's only several hundred + pounds in stock. And have Breck order half a dozen hard-rock drills from + the blacksmith. Breck's a quartz-man, and he'll give the blacksmith a + rough idea of what he wants made. And give Breck these location + descriptions, so that he can record them at the gold commissioner's + to-morrow. And finally, at ten o'clock, you be on Main Street listening. + Mind you, I don't want them to be too loud. Dawson must just hear them and + no more than hear them. I'll let off three, of different quantities, and + you note which is more nearly the right thing.” + </p> + <p> + At ten that night Shorty, strolling down Main Street, aware of many + curious eyes, his ears keyed tensely, heard a faint and distant explosion. + Thirty seconds later there was a second, sufficiently loud to attract the + attention of others on the street. Then came a third, so violent that it + rattled the windows and brought the inhabitants into the street. + </p> + <p> + “Shook 'em up beautiful,” Shorty proclaimed breathlessly, an hour + afterward, when he arrived at the cabin on Tra-Lee. He gripped Smoke's + hand. “You should a-saw 'em. Ever kick over a ant-hole? Dawson's just like + that. Main Street was crawlin' an' hummin' when I pulled my freight. You + won't see Tra-Lee to-morrow for folks. An' if they ain't some a-sneakin' + acrost right now I don't know minin' nature, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke grinned, stepped to the fake windlass, and gave it a couple of + creaking turns. Shorty pulled out the moss-chinking from between the logs + so as to make peep-holes on every side of the cabin. Then he blew out the + candle. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” he whispered at the end of half an hour. + </p> + <p> + Smoke turned the windlass slowly, paused after several minutes, caught up + a galvanized bucket filled with earth and struck it with slide and scrape + and grind against the heap of rocks they had hauled in. Then he lighted a + cigarette, shielding the flame of the match in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “They's three of 'em,” Shorty whispered. “You oughta saw 'em. Say, when + you made that bucket-dump noise they was fair quiverin'. They's one at the + window now tryin' to peek in.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke glowed his cigarette, and glanced at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to do this thing regularly,” he breathed. “We'll haul up a + bucket every fifteen minutes. And in the meantime—” + </p> + <p> + Through triple thicknesses of sacking, he struck a cold-chisel on the face + of a rock. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, beautiful,” Shorty moaned with delight. He crept over + noiselessly from the peep-hole. “They've got their heads together, an' I + can almost see 'em talkin'.” + </p> + <p> + And from then until four in the morning, at fifteen-minute intervals, the + seeming of a bucket was hoisted on the windlass that creaked and ran + around on itself and hoisted nothing. Then their visitors departed, and + Smoke and Shorty went to bed. + </p> + <p> + After daylight, Shorty examined the moccasin-marks. “Big Bill Saltman was + one of them,” he concluded. “Look at the size of it.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke looked out over the river. “Get ready for visitors. There are two + crossing the ice now.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Wait till Breck files that string of claims at nine o'clock. + There'll be two thousand crossing over.” + </p> + <p> + “And every mother's son of them yammering 'mother-lode,'” Smoke laughed. + “'The source of the Klondike placers found at last.'” + </p> + <p> + Shorty, who had clambered to the top of a steep shoulder of rock, gazed + with the eye of a connoisseur at the strip they had staked. + </p> + <p> + “It sure looks like a true fissure vein,” he said. “A expert could almost + trace the lines of it under the snow. It'd fool anybody. The slide fills + the front of it an' see them outcrops? Look like the real thing, only they + ain't.” + </p> + <p> + When the two men, crossing the river, climbed the zigzag trail up the + slide, they found a closed cabin. Bill Saltman, who led the way, went + softly to the door, listened, then beckoned Wild Water Charley up to him. + From inside came the creak and whine of a windlass bearing a heavy load. + They waited at the final pause, then heard the lower-away and the impact + of a bucket on rock. Four times, in the next hour, they heard the thing + repeated. Then Wild Water knocked on the door. From inside came low + furtive noises, then silences, and more furtive noises, and at the end of + five minutes Smoke, breathing heavily, opened the door an inch and peered + out. They saw on his face and shirt powdered rock-fragments. His greeting + was suspiciously genial. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” he added, “and I'll be with you.” + </p> + <p> + Pulling on his mittens, he slipped through the door and confronted the + visitors outside in the snow. Their quick eyes noted his shirt, across the + shoulders, discolored and powdery, and the knees of his overalls that + showed signs of dirt brushed hastily but not quite thoroughly away. + </p> + <p> + “Rather early for a call,” he observed. “What brings you across the river? + Going hunting?” + </p> + <p> + “We're on, Smoke,” Wild Water said confidentially. “An' you'd just as well + come through. You've got something here.” + </p> + <p> + “If you're looking for eggs—” Smoke began. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, forget it. We mean business.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean you want to buy lots, eh?” Smoke rattled on swiftly. “There's + some dandy building sites here. But, you see, we can't sell yet. We + haven't had the town surveyed. Come around next week, Wild Water, and for + peace and quietness, I'll show you something swell, if you're anxious to + live over here. Next week, sure, it will be surveyed. Good-by. Sorry I + can't ask you inside, but Shorty—well, you know him. He's peculiar. + He says he came over for peace and quietness, and he's asleep now. I + wouldn't wake him for the world.” + </p> + <p> + As Smoke talked he shook their hands warmly in farewell. Still talking and + shaking their hands, he stepped inside and closed the door. + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other and nodded significantly. + </p> + <p> + “See the knees of his pants?” Saltman whispered hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “Sure. An' his shoulders. He's been bumpin' an' crawlin' around in a + shaft.” As Wild Water talked, his eyes wandered up the snow-covered ravine + until they were halted by something that brought a whistle to his lips. + “Just cast your eyes up there, Bill. See where I'm pointing? If that ain't + a prospect-hole! An' follow it out to both sides—you can see where + they tramped in the snow. If it ain't rim-rock on both sides I don't know + what rim-rock is. It's a fissure vein, all right.” + </p> + <p> + “An' look at the size of it!” Saltman cried. “They've got something here, + you bet.” + </p> + <p> + “An' run your eyes down the slide there—see them bluffs standin' out + an' slopin' in. The whole slide's in the mouth of the vein as well.” + </p> + <p> + “And just keep a-lookin' on, out on the ice there, on the trail,” Saltman + directed. “Looks like most of Dawson, don't it?” + </p> + <p> + Wild Water took one glance and saw the trail black with men clear to the + far Dawson bank, down which the same unbroken string of men was pouring. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm goin' to get a look-in at that prospect-hole before they get + here,” he said, turning and starting swiftly up the ravine. + </p> + <p> + But the cabin door opened, and the two occupants stepped out. + </p> + <p> + “Hey!” Smoke called. “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “To pick out a lot,” Wild Water called back. “Look at the river. All + Dawson's stampeding to buy lots, an' we're going to beat 'em to it for the + choice. That's right, ain't it, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure thing,” Saltman corroborated. “This has the makin's of a Jim-dandy + suburb, an' it sure looks like it'll be some popular.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we're not selling lots over in that section where you're heading,” + Smoke answered. “Over to the right there, and back on top of the bluffs + are the lots. This section, running from the river and over the tops, is + reserved. So come on back.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the spot we've gone and selected,” Saltman argued. + </p> + <p> + “But there's nothing doing, I tell you,” Smoke said sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Any objections to our strolling, then?” Saltman persisted. + </p> + <p> + “Decidedly. Your strolling is getting monotonous. Come on back out of + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I just reckon we'll stroll anyways,” Saltman replied stubbornly. “Come + on, Wild Water.” + </p> + <p> + “I warn you, you are trespassing,” was Smoke's final word. + </p> + <p> + “Nope, just strollin',” Saltman gaily retorted, turning his back and + starting on. + </p> + <p> + “Hey! Stop in your tracks, Bill, or I'll sure bore you!” Shorty thundered, + drawing and leveling two Colt's forty-fours. “Step another step in your + steps an' I let eleven holes through your danged ornery carcass. Get + that?” + </p> + <p> + Saltman stopped, perplexed. + </p> + <p> + “He sure got me,” Shorty mumbled to Smoke. “But if he goes on I'm up + against it hard. I can't shoot. What'll I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Shorty, listen to reason,” Saltman begged. + </p> + <p> + “Come here to me an' we'll talk reason,” was Shorty's retort. + </p> + <p> + And they were still talking reason when the head of the stampede emerged + from the zigzag trail and came upon them. + </p> + <p> + “You can't call a man a trespasser when he's on a town-site lookin' to buy + lots,” Wild Water was arguing, and Shorty was objecting: “But they's + private property in town-sites, an' that there strip is private property, + that's all. I tell you again, it ain't for sale.” + </p> + <p> + “Now we've got to swing this thing on the jump,” Smoke muttered to Shorty. + “If they ever get out of hand—” + </p> + <p> + “You've sure got your nerve, if you think you can hold them,” Shorty + muttered back. “They's two thousan' of 'em an' more a-comin'. They'll + break this line any minute.” + </p> + <p> + The line ran along the near rim of the ravine, and Shorty had formed it by + halting the first arrivals when they got that far in their invasion. In + the crowd were half a dozen Northwest policemen and a lieutenant. With the + latter Smoke conferred in undertones. + </p> + <p> + “They're still piling out of Dawson,” he said, “and before long there will + be five thousand here. The danger is if they start jumping claims. When + you figure there are only five claims, it means a thousand men to a claim, + and four thousand out of the five will try to jump the nearest claim. It + can't be done, and if it ever starts, there'll be more dead men here than + in the whole history of Alaska. Besides, those five claims were recorded + this morning and can't be jumped. In short, claim-jumping mustn't start.” + </p> + <p> + “Right-o,” said the lieutenant. “I'll get my men together and station + them. We can't have any trouble here, and we won't have. But you'd better + get up and talk to them.” + </p> + <p> + “There must be some mistake, fellows,” Smoke began in a loud voice. “We're + not ready to sell lots. The streets are not surveyed yet. But next week we + shall have the grand opening sale.” + </p> + <p> + He was interrupted by an outburst of impatience and indignation. + </p> + <p> + “We don't want lots,” a young miner cried out. “We don't want what's on + top of the ground. We've come for what's under the ground.” + </p> + <p> + “We don't know what we've got under the ground,” Smoke answered. “But we + do know we've got a fine town-site on top of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure,” Shorty added. “Grand for scenery an' solitude. Folks lovin' + solitude come a-flockin' here by thousands. Most popular solitude on the + Yukon.” + </p> + <p> + Again the impatient cries arose, and Saltman, who had been talking with + the later comers, came to the front. + </p> + <p> + “We're here to stake claims,” he opened. “We know what you've did—filed + a string of five quartz claims on end, and there they are over there + running across the town-site on the line of the slide and the canyon. Only + you misplayed. Two of them entries is fake. Who is Seth Bierce? No one + ever heard of him. You filed a claim this mornin' in his name. An' you + filed a claim in the name of Harry Maxwell. Now Harry Maxwell ain't in the + country. He's down in Seattle. Went out last fall. Them two claims is open + to relocation.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I have his power of attorney?” Smoke queried. + </p> + <p> + “You ain't,” Saltman answered. “An' if you have you got to show it. + Anyway, here's where we relocate. Come on, fellows.” + </p> + <p> + Saltman, stepping across the dead-line, had turned to encourage a + following, when the police lieutenant's voice rang out and stopped the + forward surge of the great mass. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on there! You can't do that, you know!” + </p> + <p> + “Can't, eh?” said Bill Saltman. “The law says a fake location can be + relocated, don't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Thet's right, Bill! Stay with it!” the crowd cheered from the safe side + of the line. + </p> + <p> + “It's the law, ain't it?” Saltman demanded truculently of the lieutenant. + </p> + <p> + “It may be the law,” came the steady answer. “But I can't and won't allow + a mob of five thousand men to attempt to jump two claims. It would be a + dangerous riot, and we're here to see there is no riot. Here, now, on this + spot, the Northwest police constitute the law. The next man who crosses + that line will be shot. You, Bill Saltman, step back across it.” + </p> + <p> + Saltman obeyed reluctantly. But an ominous restlessness became apparent in + the mass of men, irregularly packed and scattered as it was over a + landscape that was mostly up-and-down. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens,” the lieutenant whispered to Smoke. “Look at them like flies on + the edge of the cliff there. Any disorder in that mass would force + hundreds of them over.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shuddered and got up. “I'm willing to play fair, fellows. If you + insist on town lots, I'll sell them to you, one hundred apiece, and you + can raffle locations when the survey is made.” With raised hand he stilled + the movement of disgust. “Don't move, anybody. If you do, there'll be + hundreds of you shoved over the bluff. The situation is dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, you can't hog it,” a voice went up. “We don't want lots. + We want to relocate.” + </p> + <p> + “But there are only two disputed claims,” Smoke argued. “When they're + relocated where will the rest of you be?” + </p> + <p> + He mopped his forehead with his shirt-sleeve, and another voice cried out: + </p> + <p> + “Let us all in, share and share alike!” + </p> + <p> + Nor did those who roared their approbation dream that the suggestion had + been made by a man primed to make it when he saw Smoke mop his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Take your feet out of the trough an' pool the town-site,” the man went + on. “Pool the mineral rights with the town-site, too.” + </p> + <p> + “But there isn't anything in the mineral rights, I tell you,” Smoke + objected. + </p> + <p> + “Then pool them with the rest. We'll take our chances on it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fellows, you're forcing me,” Smoke said. “I wish you'd stayed on your + side of the river.” + </p> + <p> + But wavering indecision was so manifest that with a mighty roar the crowd + swept him on to agreement. Saltman and others in the front rank demurred. + </p> + <p> + “Bill Saltman, here, and Wild Water don't want you all in,” Smoke informed + the crowd. “Who's hogging it now?” + </p> + <p> + And thereat Saltman and Wild Water became profoundly unpopular. + </p> + <p> + “Now how are we going to do it?” Smoke asked. “Shorty and I ought to keep + control. We discovered this town-site.” + </p> + <p> + “That's right!” many cried. “A square deal!” “It's only fair!” + </p> + <p> + “Three-fifths to us,” Smoke suggested, “and you fellows come in for + two-fifths. And you've got to pay for your shares.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten cents on the dollar!” was a cry. “And non-assessable!” + </p> + <p> + “And the president of the company to come around personally and pay you + your dividends on a silver platter,” Smoke sneered. “No, sir. You fellows + have got to be reasonable. Ten cents on the dollar will help start things. + You buy two-fifths of the stock, hundred dollars par, at ten dollars. + That's the best I can do. And if you don't like it, just start jumping the + claims. I can't stand more than a two-fifths gouge.” + </p> + <p> + “No big capitalization!” a voice called, and it was this voice that + crystallized the collective mind of the crowd into consent. + </p> + <p> + “There's about five thousand of you, which will make five thousand + shares,” Smoke worked the problem aloud. “And five thousand is two-fifths + of twelve thousand, five hundred. Therefore The Tra-Lee Town-Site Company + is capitalized for one million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, + there being twelve thousand, five hundred shares, hundred par, you fellows + buying five thousand of them at ten dollars apiece. And I don't care a + whoop whether you accept it or not. And I call you all to witness that + you're forcing me against my will.” + </p> + <p> + With the assurance of the crowd that they had caught him with the goods on + him, in the shape of the two fake locations, a committee was formed and + the rough organization of the Tra-Lee Town-Site Company effected. Scorning + the proposal of delivering the shares next day in Dawson, and scorning it + because of the objection that the portion of Dawson that had not engaged + in the stampede would ring in for shares, the committee, by a fire on the + ice at the foot of the slide, issued a receipt to each stampeder in return + for ten dollars in dust duly weighed on two dozen gold-scales which were + obtained from Dawson. + </p> + <p> + By twilight the work was accomplished and Tra-Lee was deserted, save for + Smoke and Shorty, who ate supper in the cabin and chuckled at the list of + shareholders, four thousand eight hundred and seventy-four strong, and at + the gold-sacks, which they knew contained approximately forty-eight + thousand seven hundred and forty dollars. + </p> + <p> + “But you ain't swung it yet,” Shorty objected. + </p> + <p> + “He'll be here,” Smoke asserted with conviction. “He's a born gambler, and + when Breck whispers the tip to him not even heart disease would stop him.” + </p> + <p> + Within the hour came a knock at the door, and Wild Water entered, followed + by Bill Saltman. Their eyes swept the cabin eagerly, coming to rest on the + windlass elaborately concealed by blankets. + </p> + <p> + “But suppose I did want to vote twelve hundred shares,” Wild Water was + arguing half an hour later. “With the other five thousand sold to-day it'd + make only sixty-two hundred shares. That'd leave you and Shorty with + sixty-three hundred. You'd still control.” + </p> + <p> + “But what d' you want with all that of a town-site?” Shorty queried. + </p> + <p> + “You can answer that better 'n me,” Wild Water replied. “An' between you + an' me,” his gaze drifted over the blanket-draped windlass, “it's a pretty + good-looking town-site.” + </p> + <p> + “But Bill wants some,” Smoke said grudgingly, “and we simply won't part + with more than five hundred shares.” + </p> + <p> + “How much you got to invest?” Wild Water asked Saltman. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, say five thousand. It was all I could scare up.” + </p> + <p> + “Wild Water,” Smoke went on, in the same grudging, complaining voice, “if + I didn't know you so well, I wouldn't sell you a single besotted share. + And, anyway, Shorty and I won't part with more than five hundred, and + they'll cost you fifty dollars apiece. That's the last word, and if you + don't like it, good-night. Bill can take a hundred and you can have the + other four hundred.” + </p> + <p> + Next day Dawson began its laugh. It started early in the morning, just + after daylight, when Smoke went to the bulletin-board outside the A. C. + Company store and tacked up a notice. Men gathered and were reading and + snickering over his shoulder ere he had driven the last tack. Soon the + bulletin-board was crowded by hundreds who could not get near enough to + read. Then a reader was appointed by acclamation, and thereafter, + throughout the day, many men were acclaimed to read in loud voice the + notice Smoke Bellew had nailed up. And there were numbers of men who stood + in the snow and heard it read several times in order to memorize the + succulent items that appeared in the following order: + </p> + <p> + The Tra-Lee Town-Site Company keeps its accounts on the wall. This is its + first account and its last. + </p> + <p> + Any shareholder who objects to donating ten dollars to the Dawson General + Hospital may obtain his ten dollars on personal application to Wild Water + Charley, or, failing that, will absolutely obtain it on application to + Smoke Bellew. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MONEYS RECEIVED AND DISBURSED + + From 4874 shares at $10.00...............................$48,740.00 + To Dwight Sanderson for Town-Site of Tra-Lee..............10,000.00 + To incidental expenses, to wit: powder, drills, + windlass, gold commissioner's office, etc.............1,000.00 + To Dawson General Hospital................................37,740.00 + Total..........................................$48,740.00 + + From Bill Saltman, for 100 shares privately + purchased at $50.00.................................$ 5,000.00 + From Wild Water Charley, for 400 shares privately + purchased at $50.00..................................20,000.00 + To Bill Saltman, in recognition of services as + volunteer stampede promoter...........................5,000.00 + To Dawson General Hospital.................................3,000.00 + To Smoke Bellew and Jack Short, balance in full on + egg deal and morally owing...........................17,000.00 + Total..........................................$25,000.00 + + Shares remaining to account for 7126. These shares, held by Smoke + Bellew and Jack Short, value nil, may be obtained gratis, for the + asking, by any and all residents of Dawson desiring change of domicile + to the peace and solitude of the town of Tra-Lee. + + (Note: Peace and solitude always and perpetually guaranteed in town + of Tra-Lee) + + (Signed) SMOKE BELLEW, President. + (Signed) JACK SHORT, Secretary. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII. WONDER OF WOMAN + </h2> + <p> + “Just the same, I notice you ain't tumbled over yourself to get married,” + Shorty remarked, continuing a conversation that had lapsed some few + minutes before. + </p> + <p> + Smoke, sitting on the edge of the sleeping-robe and examining the feet of + a dog he had rolled snarling on its back in the snow, did not answer. And + Shorty, turning a steaming moccasin propped on a stick before the fire, + studied his partner's face keenly. + </p> + <p> + “Cock your eye up at that there aurora borealis,” Shorty went on. “Some + frivolous, eh? Just like any shilly-shallyin', shirt-dancing woman. The + best of them is frivolous, when they ain't foolish. And they's cats, all + of 'em, the littlest an' the biggest, the nicest and the otherwise. + They're sure devourin' lions an' roarin' hyenas when they get on the trail + of a man they've cottoned to.” + </p> + <p> + Again the monologue languished. Smoke cuffed the dog when it attempted to + snap his hand, and went on examining its bruised and bleeding pads. + </p> + <p> + “Huh!” pursued Shorty. “Mebbe I couldn't 'a' married if I'd a mind to! An' + mebbe I wouldn't 'a' been married without a mind to, if I hadn't hiked for + tall timber. Smoke, d'you want to know what saved me? I'll tell you. My + wind. I just kept a-runnin'. I'd like to see any skirt run me outa + breath.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke released the animal and turned his own steaming, stick-propped + moccasins. “We've got to rest over to-morrow and make moccasins,” he + vouchsafed. “That little crust is playing the devil with their feet.” + </p> + <p> + “We oughta keep goin' somehow,” Shorty objected. “We ain't got grub enough + to turn back with, and we gotta strike that run of caribou or them white + Indians almighty soon or we'll be eatin' the dogs, sore feet an' all. Now + who ever seen them white Indians anyway? Nothin' but hearsay. An' how can + a Indian be white? A black white man'd be as natural. Smoke, we just + oughta travel to-morrow. The country's plumb dead of game. We ain't seen + even a rabbit-track in a week, you know that. An' we gotta get out of this + dead streak into somewhere that meat's runnin'.” + </p> + <p> + “They'll travel all the better with a day's rest for their feet and + moccasins all around,” Smoke counseled. “If you get a chance at any low + divide, take a peep over at the country beyond. We're likely to strike + open rolling country any time now. That's what La Perle told us to look + for.” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! By his own story, it was ten years ago that La Perle come through + this section, an' he was that loco from hunger he couldn't know what he + did see. Remember what he said of whoppin' big flags floatin' from the + tops of the mountains? That shows how loco HE was. An' he said himself he + never seen any white Indians—that was Anton's yarn. An', besides, + Anton kicked the bucket two years before you an' me come to Alaska. But + I'll take a look to-morrow. An' mebbe I might pick up a moose. What d' you + say we turn in?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke spent the morning in camp, sewing dog-moccasins and repairing + harnesses. At noon he cooked a meal for two, ate his share, and began to + look for Shorty's return. An hour later he strapped on his snow-shoes and + went out on his partner's trail. The way led up the bed of the stream, + through a narrow gorge that widened suddenly into a moose-pasture. But no + moose had been there since the first snow of the preceding fall. The + tracks of Shorty's snow-shoes crossed the pasture and went up the easy + slope of a low divide. At the crest Smoke halted. The tracks continued + down the other slope. The first spruce-trees, in the creek bed, were a + mile away, and it was evident that Shorty had passed through them and gone + on. Smoke looked at his watch, remembered the oncoming darkness, the dogs, + and the camp, and reluctantly decided against going farther. But before he + retraced his steps he paused for a long look. All the eastern sky-line was + saw-toothed by the snowy backbone of the Rockies. The whole mountain + system, range upon range, seemed to trend to the northwest, cutting + athwart the course to the open country reported by La Perle. The effect + was as if the mountains conspired to thrust back the traveler toward the + west and the Yukon. Smoke wondered how many men in the past, approaching + as he had approached, had been turned aside by that forbidding aspect. La + Perle had not been turned aside, but, then, La Perle had crossed over from + the eastern slope of the Rockies. + </p> + <p> + Until midnight Smoke maintained a huge fire for the guidance of Shorty. + And in the morning, waiting with camp broken and dogs harnessed for the + first break of light, Smoke took up the pursuit. In the narrow pass of the + canyon, his lead-dog pricked up its ears and whined. Then Smoke came upon + the Indians, six of them, coming toward him. They were traveling light, + without dogs, and on each man's back was the smallest of pack outfits. + Surrounding Smoke, they immediately gave him several matters for surprise. + That they were looking for him was clear. That they talked no Indian + tongue of which he knew a word was also quickly made clear. They were not + white Indians, though they were taller and heavier than the Indians of the + Yukon basin. Five of them carried the old-fashioned, long-barreled Hudson + Bay Company musket, and in the hands of the sixth was a Winchester rifle + which Smoke knew to be Shorty's. + </p> + <p> + Nor did they waste time in making him a prisoner. Unarmed himself, Smoke + could only submit. The contents of the sled were distributed among their + own packs, and he was given a pack composed of his and Shorty's + sleeping-furs. The dogs were unharnessed, and when Smoke protested, one of + the Indians, by signs, indicated a trail too rough for sled-travel. Smoke + bowed to the inevitable, cached the sled end-on in the snow on the bank + above the stream, and trudged on with his captors. Over the divide to the + north they went, down to the spruce-trees which Smoke had glimpsed the + preceding afternoon. They followed the stream for a dozen miles, + abandoning it when it trended to the west and heading directly eastward up + a narrow tributary. + </p> + <p> + The first night was spent in a camp which had been occupied for several + days. Here was cached a quantity of dried salmon and a sort of pemmican, + which the Indians added to their packs. From this camp a trail of many + snow-shoes led off—Shorty's captors, was Smoke's conclusion; and + before darkness fell he succeeded in making out the tracks Shorty's + narrower snow-shoes had left. On questioning the Indians by signs, they + nodded affirmation and pointed to the north. + </p> + <p> + Always, in the days that followed, they pointed north; and always the + trail, turning and twisting through a jumble of upstanding peaks, trended + north. Everywhere, in this bleak snow-solitude, the way seemed barred, yet + ever the trail curved and coiled, finding low divides and avoiding the + higher and untraversable chains. The snow-fall was deeper than in the + lower valleys, and every step of the way was snow-shoe work. Furthermore, + Smoke's captors, all young men, traveled light and fast; and he could not + forbear the prick of pride in the knowledge that he easily kept up with + them. They were travel-hardened and trained to snow-shoes from infancy; + yet such was his condition that the traverse bore no more of ordinary + hardship to him than to them. + </p> + <p> + In six days they gained and crossed the central pass, low in comparison + with the mountains it threaded, yet formidable in itself and not possible + for loaded sleds. Five days more of tortuous winding, from lower altitude + to lower altitude, brought them to the open, rolling, and merely hilly + country La Perle had found ten years before. Smoke knew it with the first + glimpse, on a sharp cold day, the thermometer forty below zero, the + atmosphere so clear that he could see a hundred miles. Far as he could see + rolled the open country. High in the east the Rockies still thrust their + snowy ramparts heavenward. To the south and west extended the broken + ranges of the projecting spur-system they had crossed. And in this vast + pocket lay the country La Perle had traversed—snow-blanketed, but + assuredly fat with game at some time in the year, and in the summer a + smiling, forested, and flowered land. + </p> + <p> + Before midday, traveling down a broad stream, past snow-buried willows and + naked aspens, and across heavily timbered flats of spruce, they came upon + the site of a large camp, recently abandoned. Glancing as he went by, + Smoke estimated four or five hundred fires, and guessed the population to + be in the thousands. So fresh was the trail, and so well packed by the + multitude, that Smoke and his captors took off their snow-shoes and in + their moccasins struck a swifter pace. Signs of game appeared and grew + plentiful—tracks of wolves and lynxes that without meat could not + be. Once, one of the Indians cried out with satisfaction and pointed to a + large area of open snow, littered with fang-polished skulls of caribou, + trampled and disrupted as if an army had fought upon it. And Smoke knew + that a big killing had been made by the hunters since the last + snow-flurry. + </p> + <p> + In the long twilight no sign was manifested of making camp. They held + steadily on through a deepening gloom that vanished under a sky of light—great, + glittering stars half veiled by a greenish vapor of pulsing aurora + borealis. His dogs first caught the noises of the camp, pricking their + ears and whining in low eagerness. Then it came to the ears of the humans, + a murmur, dim with distance, but not invested with the soothing grace that + is common to distant murmurs. Instead, it was in a high, wild key, a beat + of shrill sound broken by shriller sounds—the long wolf-howling of + many wolf-dogs, a screaming of unrest and pain, mournful with hopelessness + and rebellion. Smoke swung back the crystal of his watch and by the feel + of finger-tips on the naked hands made out eleven o'clock. The men about + him quickened. The legs that had lifted through a dozen strenuous hours + lifted in a still swifter pace that was half a run and mostly a running + jog. Through a dark spruce-flat they burst upon an abrupt glare of light + from many fires and upon an abrupt increase of sound. The great camp lay + before them. + </p> + <p> + And as they entered and threaded the irregular runways of the + hunting-camp, a vast tumult, as in a wave, rose to meet them and rolled on + with them—cries, greetings, questions and answers, jests and jests + thrust back again, the snapping snarl of wolf-dogs rushing in furry + projectiles of wrath upon Smoke's stranger dogs, the scolding of squaws, + laughter, the whimpering of children and wailing of infants, the moans of + the sick aroused afresh to pain, all the pandemonium of a camp of + nerveless, primitive wilderness folk. + </p> + <p> + Striking with clubs and the butts of guns, Smoke's party drove back the + attacking dogs, while his own dogs, snapping and snarling, awed by so many + enemies, shrank in among the legs of their human protectors, and bristled + along stiff-legged in menacing prance. + </p> + <p> + They halted in the trampled snow by an open fire, where Shorty and two + young Indians, squatted on their hams, were broiling strips of caribou + meat. Three other young Indians, lying in furs on a mat of spruce-boughs, + sat up. Shorty looked across the fire at his partner, but with a sternly + impassive face, like those of his companions, made no sign and went on + broiling the meat. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter?” Smoke demanded, half in irritation. “Lost your + speech?” + </p> + <p> + The old familiar grin twisted on Shorty's face. “Nope,” he answered. “I'm + a Indian. I'm learnin' not to show surprise. When did they catch you?” + </p> + <p> + “Next day after you left.” + </p> + <p> + “Hum,” Shorty said, the light of whimsy dancing in his eyes. “Well, I'm + doin' fine, thank you most to death. This is the bachelors' camp.” He + waved his hand to embrace its magnificence, which consisted of a fire, + beds of spruce-boughs laid on top of the snow, flies of caribou skin, and + wind-shields of twisted spruce and willow withes. “An' these are the + bachelors.” This time his hand indicated the young men, and he spat a few + spoken gutturals in their own language that brought the white flash of + acknowledgment from eyes and teeth. “They're glad to meet you, Smoke. Set + down an' dry your moccasins, an' I'll cook up some grub. I'm gettin' the + hang of the lingo pretty well, ain't I? You'll have to come to it, for it + looks as if we'll be with these folks a long time. They's another white + man here. Got caught six years ago. He's a Irishman they picked up over + Great Slave Lake way. Danny McCan is what he goes by. He's settled down + with a squaw. Got two kids already, but he'll skin out if ever the chance + opens up. See that low fire over there to the right? That's his camp.” + </p> + <p> + Apparently this was Smoke's appointed domicile, for his captors left him + and his dogs, and went on deeper into the big camp. While he attended to + his foot-gear and devoured strips of hot meat, Shorty cooked and talked. + </p> + <p> + “This is a sure peach of a pickle, Smoke—you listen to me. An' we + got to go some to get out. These is the real, blowed-in-the-glass, wild + Indians. They ain't white, but their chief is. He talks like a mouthful of + hot mush, an' if he ain't full-blood Scotch they ain't no such thing as + Scotch in the world. He's the hi-yu, skookum top-chief of the whole + caboodle. What he says goes. You want to get that from the start-off. + Danny McCan's been tryin' to get away from him for six years. Danny's all + right, but he ain't got go in him. He knows a way out—learned it on + huntin' trips—to the west of the way you an' me came. He ain't had + the nerve to tackle it by his lonely. But we can pull it off, the three of + us. Whiskers is the real goods, but he's mostly loco just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Who's Whiskers?” Smoke queried, pausing in the wolfing-down of a hot + strip of meat. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he's the top geezer. He's the Scotcher. He's gettin' old, an' he's + sure asleep now, but he'll see you to-morrow an' show you clear as print + what a measly shrimp you are on his stompin'-grounds. These grounds belong + to him. You got to get that into your noodle. They ain't never been + explored, nor nothin', an' they're hisn. An' he won't let you forget it. + He's got about twenty thousand square miles of huntin' country here all + his own. He's the white Indian, him an' the skirt. Huh! Don't look at me + that way. Wait till you see her. Some looker, an' all white, like her dad—he's + Whiskers. An' say, caribou! I've saw 'em. A hundred thousan' of good + running meat in the herd, an' ten thousan' wolves an' cats a-followin' an' + livin' off the stragglers an' the leavin's. We leave the leavin's. The + herd's movin' to the east, an' we'll be followin' 'em any day now. We eat + our dogs, an' what we don't eat we smoke 'n cure for the spring before the + salmon-run gets its sting in. Say, what Whiskers don't know about salmon + an' caribou nobody knows, take it from me.” + </p> + <p> + “Here comes Whiskers lookin' like he's goin' somewheres,” Shorty + whispered, reaching over and wiping greasy hands on the coat of one of the + sled-dogs. + </p> + <p> + It was morning, and the bachelors were squatting over a breakfast of + caribou-meat, which they ate as they broiled. Smoke glanced up and saw a + small and slender man, skin-clad like any savage, but unmistakably white, + striding in advance of a sled team and a following of a dozen Indians. + Smoke cracked a hot bone, and while he sucked out the steaming marrow + gazed at his approaching host. Bushy whiskers and yellowish gray hair, + stained by camp smoke, concealed most of the face, but failed wholly to + hide the gaunt, almost cadaverous, cheeks. It was a healthy leanness, + Smoke decided, as he noted the wide flare of the nostrils and the breadth + and depth of chest that gave spaciousness to the guaranty of oxygen and + life. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do,” the man said, slipping a mitten and holding out his bare + hand. “My name is Snass,” he added, as they shook hands. + </p> + <p> + “Mine's Bellew,” Smoke returned, feeling peculiarly disconcerted as he + gazed into the keen-searching black eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Getting plenty to eat, I see.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded and resumed his marrow-bone, the purr of Scottish speech + strangely pleasant in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “Rough rations. But we don't starve often. And it's more natural than the + hand-reared meat of the cities.” + </p> + <p> + “I see you don't like cities,” Smoke laughed, in order to be saying + something; and was immediately startled by the transformation Snass + underwent. + </p> + <p> + Quite like a sensitive plant, the man's entire form seemed to wilt and + quiver. Then the recoil, tense and savage, concentered in the eyes, in + which appeared a hatred that screamed of immeasurable pain. He turned + abruptly away, and, recollecting himself, remarked casually over his + shoulder: + </p> + <p> + “I'll see you later, Mr. Bellew. The caribou are moving east, and I'm + going ahead to pick out a location. You'll all come on to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Some Whiskers, that, eh?” Shorty muttered, as Snass pulled on at the head + of his outfit. + </p> + <p> + Again Shorty wiped his hands on the wolf-dog, which seemed to like it as + it licked off the delectable grease. + </p> + <p> + Later on in the morning Smoke went for a stroll through the camp, busy + with its primitive pursuits. A big body of hunters had just returned, and + the men were scattering to their various fires. Women and children were + departing with dogs harnessed to empty toboggan-sleds, and women and + children and dogs were hauling sleds heavy with meat fresh from the + killing and already frozen. An early spring cold-snap was on, and the + wildness of the scene was painted in a temperature of thirty below zero. + Woven cloth was not in evidence. Furs and soft-tanned leather clad all + alike. Boys passed with bows in their hands, and quivers of bone-barbed + arrows; and many a skinning-knife of bone or stone Smoke saw in belts or + neck-hung sheaths. Women toiled over the fires, smoke-curing the meat, on + their backs infants that stared round-eyed and sucked at lumps of tallow. + Dogs, full-kin to wolves, bristled up to Smoke to endure the menace of the + short club he carried and to whiff the odor of this newcomer whom they + must accept by virtue of the club. + </p> + <p> + Segregated in the heart of the camp, Smoke came upon what was evidently + Snass's fire. Though temporary in every detail, it was solidly constructed + and was on a large scale. A great heap of bales of skins and outfit was + piled on a scaffold out of reach of the dogs. A large canvas fly, almost + half-tent, sheltered the sleeping- and living-quarters. To one side was a + silk tent—the sort favored by explorers and wealthy big-game + hunters. Smoke had never seen such a tent, and stepped closer. As he stood + looking, the flaps parted and a young woman came out. So quickly did she + move, so abruptly did she appear, that the effect on Smoke was as that of + an apparition. He seemed to have the same effect on her, and for a long + moment they gazed at each other. + </p> + <p> + She was dressed entirely in skins, but such skins and such magnificently + beautiful fur-work Smoke had never dreamed of. Her parka, the hood thrown + back, was of some strange fur of palest silver. The mukluks, with + walrus-hide soles, were composed of the silver-padded feet of many lynxes. + The long-gauntleted mittens, the tassels at the knees, all the varied furs + of the costume, were pale silver that shimmered in the frosty light; and + out of this shimmering silver, poised on slender, delicate neck, lifted + her head, the rosy face blonde as the eyes were blue, the ears like two + pink shells, the light chestnut hair touched with frost-dust and + coruscating frost-glints. + </p> + <p> + All this and more, as in a dream, Smoke saw; then, recollecting himself, + his hand fumbled for his cap. At the same moment the wonder-stare in the + girl's eyes passed into a smile, and, with movements quick and vital, she + slipped a mitten and extended her hand. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do,” she murmured gravely, with a queer, delightful accent, + her voice, silvery as the furs she wore, coming with a shock to Smoke's + ears, attuned as they were to the harsh voices of the camp squaws. + </p> + <p> + Smoke could only mumble phrases that were awkwardly reminiscent of his + best society manner. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to see you,” she went on slowly and gropingly, her face a + ripple of smiles. “My English you will please excuse. It is not good. I am + English like you,” she gravely assured him. “My father he is Scotch. My + mother she is dead. She is French, and English, and a little Indian, too. + Her father was a great man in the Hudson Bay Company. Brrr! It is cold.” + She slipped on her mitten and rubbed her ears, the pink of which had + already turned to white. “Let us go to the fire and talk. My name is + Labiskwee. What is your name?” + </p> + <p> + And so Smoke came to know Labiskwee, the daughter of Snass, whom Snass + called Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Snass is not my father's name,” she informed Smoke. “Snass is only an + Indian name.” + </p> + <p> + Much Smoke learned that day, and in the days that followed, as the + hunting-camp moved on in the trail of the caribou. These were real wild + Indians—the ones Anton had encountered and escaped from long years + before. This was nearly the western limit of their territory, and in the + summer they ranged north to the tundra shores of the Arctic, and eastward + as far as the Luskwa. What river the Luskwa was Smoke could not make out, + nor could Labiskwee tell him, nor could McCan. On occasion Snass, with + parties of strong hunters, pushed east across the Rockies, on past the + lakes and the Mackenzie and into the Barrens. It was on the last traverse + in that direction that the silk tent occupied by Labiskwee had been found. + </p> + <p> + “It belonged to the Millicent-Adbury expedition,” Snass told Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I remember. They went after musk-oxen. The rescue expedition never + found a trace of them.” + </p> + <p> + “I found them,” Snass said. “But both were dead.” + </p> + <p> + “The world still doesn't know. The word never got out.” + </p> + <p> + “The word never gets out,” Snass assured him pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “You mean if they had been alive when you found them—?” + </p> + <p> + Snass nodded. “They would have lived on with me and my people.” + </p> + <p> + “Anton got out,” Smoke challenged. + </p> + <p> + “I do not remember the name. How long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Fourteen or fifteen years,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “So he pulled through, after all. Do you know, I've wondered about him. We + called him Long Tooth. He was a strong man, a strong man.” + </p> + <p> + “La Perle came through here ten years ago.” + </p> + <p> + Snass shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “He found traces of your camps. It was summer time.” + </p> + <p> + “That explains it,” Snass answered. “We are hundreds of miles to the north + in the summer.” + </p> + <p> + But, strive as he would, Smoke could get no clew to Snass's history in the + days before he came to live in the northern wilds. Educated he was, yet in + all the intervening years he had read no books, no newspapers. What had + happened in the world he knew not, nor did he show desire to know. He had + heard of the miners on the Yukon, and of the Klondike strike. Gold-miners + had never invaded his territory, for which he was glad. But the outside + world to him did not exist. He tolerated no mention of it. + </p> + <p> + Nor could Labiskwee help Smoke with earlier information. She had been born + on the hunting-grounds. Her mother had lived for six years after. Her + mother had been very beautiful—the only white woman Labiskwee had + ever seen. She said this wistfully, and wistfully, in a thousand ways, she + showed that she knew of the great outside world on which her father had + closed the door. But this knowledge was secret. She had early learned that + mention of it threw her father into a rage. + </p> + <p> + Anton had told a squaw of her mother, and that her mother had been a + daughter of a high official in the Hudson Bay Company. Later, the squaw + had told Labiskwee. But her mother's name she had never learned. + </p> + <p> + As a source of information, Danny McCan was impossible. He did not like + adventure. Wild life was a horror, and he had had nine years of it. + Shanghaied in San Francisco, he had deserted the whaleship at Point Barrow + with three companions. Two had died, and the third had abandoned him on + the terrible traverse south. Two years he had lived with the Eskimos + before raising the courage to attempt the south traverse, and then, within + several days of a Hudson Bay Company post, he had been gathered in by a + party of Snass's young men. He was a small, stupid man, afflicted with + sore eyes, and all he dreamed or could talk about was getting back to his + beloved San Francisco and his blissful trade of bricklaying. + </p> + <p> + “You're the first intelligent man we've had,” Snass complimented Smoke one + night by the fire. “Except old Four Eyes. The Indians named him so. He + wore glasses and was short-sighted. He was a professor of zoology.” (Smoke + noted the correctness of the pronunciation of the word.) “He died a year + ago. My young men picked him up strayed from an expedition on the upper + Porcupine. He was intelligent, yes; but he was also a fool. That was his + weakness—straying. He knew geology, though, and working in metals. + Over on the Luskwa, where there's coal, we have several creditable + hand-forges he made. He repaired our guns and taught the young men how. He + died last year, and we really missed him. Strayed—that's how it + happened—froze to death within a mile of camp.” + </p> + <p> + It was on the same night that Snass said to Smoke: + </p> + <p> + “You'd better pick out a wife and have a fire of your own. You will be + more comfortable than with those young bucks. The maidens' fires—a + sort of feast of the virgins, you know—are not lighted until full + summer and the salmon, but I can give orders earlier if you say the word.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke laughed and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Remember,” Snass concluded quietly, “Anton is the only one that ever got + away. He was lucky, unusually lucky.” + </p> + <p> + Her father had a will of iron, Labiskwee told Smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Four Eyes used to call him the Frozen Pirate—whatever that means—the + Tyrant of the Frost, the Cave Bear, the Beast Primitive, the King of the + Caribou, the Bearded Pard, and lots of such things. Four Eyes loved words + like these. He taught me most of my English. He was always making fun. You + could never tell. He called me his cheetah-chum after times when I was + angry. What is cheetah? He always teased me with it.” + </p> + <p> + She chattered on with all the eager naivete of a child, which Smoke found + hard to reconcile with the full womanhood of her form and face. + </p> + <p> + Yes, her father was very firm. Everybody feared him. He was terrible when + angry. There were the Porcupines. It was through them, and through the + Luskwas, that Snass traded his skins at the posts and got his supplies of + ammunition and tobacco. He was always fair, but the chief of the + Porcupines began to cheat. And after Snass had warned him twice, he burned + his log village, and over a dozen of the Porcupines were killed in the + fight. But there was no more cheating. Once, when she was a little girl, + there was one white man killed while trying to escape. No, her father did + not do it, but he gave the order to the young men. No Indian ever + disobeyed her father. + </p> + <p> + And the more Smoke learned from her, the more the mystery of Snass + deepened. + </p> + <p> + “And tell me if it is true,” the girl was saying, “that there was a man + and a woman whose names were Paolo and Francesca and who greatly loved + each other?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Four Eyes told me all about it,” she beamed happily. “And so he did not + make it up, after all. You see, I was not sure. I asked father, but, oh, + he was angry. The Indians told me he gave poor Four Eyes an awful talking + to. Then there were Tristan and Iseult—two Iseults. It was very sad. + But I should like to love that way. Do all the young men and women in the + world do that? They do not here. They just get married. They do not seem + to have time. I am English, and I will never marry an Indian—would + you? That is why I have not lighted my maiden's fire. Some of the young + men are bothering father to make me do it. Libash is one of them. He is a + great hunter. And Mahkook comes around singing songs. He is funny. + To-night, if you come by my tent after dark, you will hear him singing out + in the cold. But father says I can do as I please, and so I shall not + light my fire. You see, when a girl makes up her mind to get married, that + is the way she lets young men know. Four Eyes always said it was a fine + custom. But I noticed he never took a wife. Maybe he was too old. He did + not have much hair, but I do not think he was really very old. And how do + you know when you are in love?—like Paolo and Francesca, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke was disconcerted by the clear gaze of her blue eyes. “Why, they + say,” he stammered, “those who are in love say it, that love is dearer + than life. When one finds out that he or she likes somebody better than + everybody else in the world—why, then, they know they are in love. + That's the way it goes, but it's awfully hard to explain. You just know + it, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + She looked off across the camp-smoke, sighed, and resumed work on the fur + mitten she was sewing. “Well,” she announced with finality, “I shall never + get married anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “Once we hit out we'll sure have some tall runnin',” Shorty said dismally. + </p> + <p> + “The place is a big trap,” Smoke agreed. + </p> + <p> + From the crest of a bald knob they gazed out over Snass's snowy domain. + East, west, and south they were hemmed in by the high peaks and jumbled + ranges. Northward, the rolling country seemed interminable; yet they knew, + even in that direction, that half a dozen transverse chains blocked the + way. + </p> + <p> + “At this time of the year I could give you three days' start,” Snass told + Smoke that evening. “You can't hide your trail, you see. Anton got away + when the snow was gone. My young men can travel as fast as the best white + man; and, besides, you would be breaking trail for them. And when the snow + is off the ground, I'll see to it that you don't get the chance Anton had. + It's a good life. And soon the world fades. I have never quite got over + the surprise of finding how easy it is to get along without the world.” + </p> + <p> + “What's eatin' me is Danny McCan,” Shorty confided to Smoke. “He's a weak + brother on any trail. But he swears he knows the way out to the westward, + an' so we got to put up with him, Smoke, or you sure get yours.” + </p> + <p> + “We're all in the same boat,” Smoke answered. + </p> + <p> + “Not on your life. It's a-comin' to you straight down the pike.” + </p> + <p> + “What is?” + </p> + <p> + “You ain't heard the news?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “The bachelors told me. They just got the word. To-night it comes off, + though it's months ahead of the calendar.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Ain't interested in hearin'?” Shorty teased. + </p> + <p> + “I'm waiting to hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Danny's wife just told the bachelors,” Shorty paused impressively. + “An' the bachelors told me, of course, that the maidens' fires is due to + be lighted to-night. That's all. Now how do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't get your drift, Shorty.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't, eh? Why, it's plain open and shut. They's a skirt after you, an' + that skirt is goin' to light a fire, an' that skirt's name is Labiskwee. + Oh, I've been watchin' her watch you when you ain't lookin'. She ain't + never lighted her fire. Said she wouldn't marry a Indian. An' now, when + she lights her fire, it's a cinch it's my poor old friend Smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “It sounds like a syllogism,” Smoke said, with a sinking heart reviewing + Labiskwee's actions of the past several days. + </p> + <p> + “Cinch is shorter to pronounce,” Shorty returned. “An' that's always the + way—just as we're workin' up our get-away, along comes a skirt to + complicate everything. We ain't got no luck. Hey! Listen to that, Smoke!” + </p> + <p> + Three ancient squaws had halted midway between the bachelors' camp and the + camp of McCan, and the oldest was declaiming in shrill falsetto. + </p> + <p> + Smoke recognized the names, but not all the words, and Shorty translated + with melancholy glee. + </p> + <p> + “Labiskwee, the daughter of Snass, the Rainmaker, the Great Chief, lights + her first maiden's fire to-night. Maka, the daughter of Owits, the + Wolf-Runner—” + </p> + <p> + The recital ran through the names of a dozen maidens, and then the three + heralds tottered on their way to make announcement at the next fires. + </p> + <p> + The bachelors, who had sworn youthful oaths to speak to no maidens, were + uninterested in the approaching ceremony, and to show their disdain they + made preparations for immediate departure on a mission set them by Snass + and upon which they had planned to start the following morning. Not + satisfied with the old hunters' estimates of the caribou, Snass had + decided that the run was split. The task set the bachelors was to scout to + the north and west in quest of the second division of the great herd. + </p> + <p> + Smoke, troubled by Labiskwee's fire-lighting, announced that he would + accompany the bachelors. But first he talked with Shorty and with McCan. + </p> + <p> + “You be there on the third day, Smoke,” Shorty said. “We'll have the + outfit an' the dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “But remember,” Smoke cautioned, “if there is any slip-up in meeting me, + you keep on going and get out to the Yukon. That's flat. If you make it, + you can come back for me in the summer. If I get the chance, I'll make it, + and come back for you.” + </p> + <p> + McCan, standing by his fire, indicated with his eyes a rugged mountain + where the high western range out-jutted on the open country. + </p> + <p> + “That's the one,” he said. “A small stream on the south side. We go up it. + On the third day you meet us. We'll pass by on the third day. Anywhere you + tap that stream you'll meet us or our trail.” + </p> + <p> + But the chance did not come to Smoke on the third day. The bachelors had + changed the direction of their scout, and while Shorty and McCan plodded + up the stream with their dogs, Smoke and the bachelors were sixty miles to + the northeast picking up the trail of the second caribou herd. Several + days later, through a dim twilight of falling snow, they came back to the + big camp. A squaw ceased from wailing by a fire and darted up to Smoke. + Harsh tongued, with bitter, venomous eyes, she cursed him, waving her arms + toward a silent, fur-wrapped form that still lay on the sled which had + hauled it in. + </p> + <p> + What had happened, Smoke could only guess, and as he came to McCan's fire + he was prepared for a second cursing. Instead, he saw McCan himself + industriously chewing a strip of caribou meat. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a fightin' man,” he whiningly explained. “But Shorty got away, + though they're still after him. He put up a hell of a fight. They'll get + him, too. He ain't got a chance. He plugged two bucks that'll get around + all right. An' he croaked one square through the chest.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” Smoke answered. “I just met the widow.” + </p> + <p> + “Old Snass'll be wantin' to see you,” McCan added. “Them's his orders. + Soon as you come in you was to go to his fire. I ain't squealed. You don't + know nothing. Keep that in mind. Shorty went off on his own along with + me.” + </p> + <p> + At Snass's fire Smoke found Labiskwee. She met him with eyes that shone + with such softness and tenderness as to frighten him. + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad you did not try to run away,” she said. “You see, I—” She + hesitated, but her eyes didn't drop. They swam with a light unmistakable. + “I lighted my fire, and of course it was for you. It has happened. I like + you better than everybody else in the world. Better than my father. Better + than a thousand Libashes and Mahkooks. I love. It is very strange. I love + as Francesca loved, as Iseult loved. Old Four Eyes spoke true. Indians do + not love this way. But my eyes are blue, and I am white. We are white, you + and I.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke had never been proposed to in his life, and he was unable to meet + the situation. Worse, it was not even a proposal. His acceptance was taken + for granted. So thoroughly was it all arranged in Labiskwee's mind, so + warm was the light in her eyes, that he was amazed that she did not throw + her arms around him and rest her head on his shoulder. Then he realized, + despite her candor of love, that she did not know the pretty ways of love. + Among the primitive savages such ways did not obtain. She had had no + chance to learn. + </p> + <p> + She prattled on, chanting the happy burden of her love, while he strove to + grip himself in the effort, somehow, to wound her with the truth. This, at + the very first, was the golden opportunity. + </p> + <p> + “But, Labiskwee, listen,” he began. “Are you sure you learned from Four + Eyes all the story of the love of Paolo and Francesca?” + </p> + <p> + She clasped her hands and laughed with an immense certitude of gladness. + “Oh! There is more! I knew there must be more and more of love! I have + thought much since I lighted my fire. I have—” + </p> + <p> + And then Snass strode in to the fire through the falling snowflakes, and + Smoke's opportunity was lost. + </p> + <p> + “Good evening,” Snass burred gruffly. “Your partner has made a mess of it. + I am glad you had better sense.” + </p> + <p> + “You might tell me what's happened,” Smoke urged. + </p> + <p> + The flash of white teeth through the stained beard was not pleasant. + “Certainly, I'll tell you. Your partner has killed one of my people. That + sniveling shrimp, McCan, deserted at the first shot. He'll never run away + again. But my hunters have got your partner in the mountains, and they'll + get him. He'll never make the Yukon basin. As for you, from now on you + sleep at my fire. And there'll be no more scouting with the young men. I + shall have my eye on you.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke's new situation at Snass's fire was embarrassing. He saw more of + Labiskwee than ever. In its sweetness and innocence, the frankness of her + love was terrible. Her glances were love glances; every look was a caress. + A score of times he nerved himself to tell her of Joy Gastell, and a score + of times he discovered that he was a coward. The damnable part of it was + that Labiskwee was so delightful. She was good to look upon. Despite the + hurt to his self-esteem of every moment spent with her, he pleasured in + every such moment. For the first time in his life he was really learning + woman, and so clear was Labiskwee's soul, so appalling in its innocence + and ignorance, that he could not misread a line of it. All the pristine + goodness of her sex was in her, uncultured by the conventionality of + knowledge or the deceit of self-protection. In memory he reread his + Schopenhauer and knew beyond all cavil that the sad philosopher was wrong. + To know woman, as Smoke came to know Labiskwee, was to know that all + woman-haters were sick men. + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee was wonderful, and yet, beside her face in the flesh burned the + vision of the face of Joy Gastell. Joy had control, restraint, all the + feminine inhibitions of civilization, yet, by the trick of his fancy and + the living preachment of the woman before him, Joy Gastell was stripped to + a goodness at par with Labiskwee's. The one but appreciated the other, and + all women of all the world appreciated by what Smoke saw in the soul of + Labiskwee at Snass's fire in the snow-land. + </p> + <p> + And Smoke learned about himself. He remembered back to all he knew of Joy + Gastell, and he knew that he loved her. Yet he delighted in Labiskwee. And + what was this feeling of delight but love? He could demean it by no less a + name. Love it was. Love it must be. And he was shocked to the roots of his + soul by the discovery of this polygamous strain in his nature. He had + heard it argued, in the San Francisco studios, that it was possible for a + man to love two women, or even three women, at a time. But he had not + believed it. How could he believe it when he had not had the experience? + Now it was different. He did truly love two women, and though most of the + time he was quite convinced that he loved Joy Gastell more, there were + other moments when he felt with equal certainty that he loved Labiskwee + more. + </p> + <p> + “There must be many women in the world,” she said one day. “And women like + men. Many women must have liked you. Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + He did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” she insisted. + </p> + <p> + “I have never married,” he evaded. + </p> + <p> + “And there is no one else? No other Iseult out there beyond the + mountains?” + </p> + <p> + Then it was that Smoke knew himself a coward. He lied. Reluctantly he did + it, but he lied. He shook his head with a slow indulgent smile, and in his + face was more of fondness than he dreamed as he noted Labiskwee's swift + joy-transfiguration. + </p> + <p> + He excused himself to himself. His reasoning was jesuitical beyond + dispute, and yet he was not Spartan enough to strike this child-woman a + quivering heart-stroke. + </p> + <p> + Snass, too, was a perturbing factor in the problem. Little escaped his + black eyes, and he spoke significantly. + </p> + <p> + “No man cares to see his daughter married,” he said to Smoke. “At least, + no man of imagination. It hurts. The thought of it hurts, I tell you. Just + the same, in the natural order of life, Margaret must marry some time.” + </p> + <p> + A pause fell; Smoke caught himself wondering for the thousandth time what + Snass's history must be. + </p> + <p> + “I am a harsh, cruel man,” Snass went on. “Yet the law is the law, and I + am just. Nay, here with this primitive people, I am the law and the + justice. Beyond my will no man goes. Also, I am a father, and all my days + I have been cursed with imagination.” + </p> + <p> + Whither his monologue tended, Smoke did not learn, for it was interrupted + by a burst of chiding and silvery laughter from Labiskwee's tent, where + she played with a new-caught wolf-cub. A spasm of pain twitched Snass's + face. + </p> + <p> + “I can stand it,” he muttered grimly. “Margaret must be married, and it is + my fortune, and hers, that you are here. I had little hopes of Four Eyes. + McCan was so hopeless I turned him over to a squaw who had lighted her + fire twenty seasons. If it hadn't been you, it would have been an Indian. + Libash might have become the father of my grandchildren.” + </p> + <p> + And then Labiskwee came from her tent to the fire, the wolf-cub in her + arms, drawn as by a magnet, to gaze upon the man, in her eyes the love + that art had never taught to hide. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * * * * * +</pre> + <p> + “Listen to me,” said McCan. “The spring thaw is here, an' the crust is + comin' on the snow. It's the time to travel, exceptin' for the spring + blizzards in the mountains. I know them. I would run with no less a man + than you.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can't run,” Smoke contradicted. “You can keep up with no man. + Your backbone is limber as thawed marrow. If I run, I run alone. The world + fades, and perhaps I shall never run. Caribou meat is very good, and soon + will come summer and the salmon.” + </p> + <p> + Said Snass: “Your partner is dead. My hunters did not kill him. They found + the body, frozen in the first of the spring storms in the mountains. No + man can escape. When shall we celebrate your marriage?” + </p> + <p> + And Labiskwee: “I watch you. There is trouble in your eyes, in your face. + Oh, I do know all your face. There is a little scar on your neck, just + under the ear. When you are happy, the corners of your mouth turn up. When + you think sad thoughts they turn down. When you smile there are three and + four wrinkles at the corners of your eyes. When you laugh there are six. + Sometimes I have almost counted seven. But I cannot count them now. I have + never read books. I do not know how to read. But Four Eyes taught me much. + My grammar is good. He taught me. And in his own eyes I have seen the + trouble of the hunger for the world. He was often hungry for the world. + Yet here was good meat, and fish in plenty, and the berries and the roots, + and often flour came back for the furs through the Porcupines and the + Luskwas. Yet was he hungry for the world. Is the world so good that you, + too, are hungry for it? Four Eyes had nothing. But you have me.” She + sighed and shook her head. “Four Eyes died still hungry for the world. And + if you lived here always would you, too, die hungry for the world? I am + afraid I do not know the world. Do you want to run away to the world?” + </p> + <p> + Smoke could not speak, but by his mouth-corner lines was she convinced. + </p> + <p> + Minutes of silence passed, in which she visibly struggled, while Smoke + cursed himself for the unguessed weakness that enabled him to speak the + truth about his hunger for the world while it kept his lips tight on the + truth of the existence of the other woman. + </p> + <p> + Again Labiskwee sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I love you more than I fear my father's anger, and he is more + terrible in anger than a mountain storm. You told me what love is. This is + the test of love. I shall help you to run away back to the world.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke awakened softly and without movement. Warm small fingers touched his + cheek and slid gently to a pressure on his lips. Fur, with the chill of + frost clinging in it, next tingled his skin, and the one word, “Come,” was + breathed in his ear. He sat up carefully and listened. The hundreds of + wolf-dogs in the camp had lifted their nocturnal song, but under the + volume of it, close at hand, he could distinguish the light, regular + breathing of Snass. + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee tugged gently at Smoke's sleeve, and he knew she wished him to + follow. He took his moccasins and German socks in his hand and crept out + into the snow in his sleeping moccasins. Beyond the glow from the dying + embers of the fire, she indicated to him to put on his outer foot-gear, + and while he obeyed, she went back under the fly where Snass slept. + </p> + <p> + Feeling the hands of his watch Smoke found it was one in the morning. + Quite warm it was, he decided, not more than ten below zero. Labiskwee + rejoined him and led him on through the dark runways of the sleeping camp. + Walk lightly as they could, the frost crunched crisply under their + moccasins, but the sound was drowned by the clamor of the dogs, too deep + in their howling to snarl at the man and woman who passed. + </p> + <p> + “Now we can talk,” she said, when the last fire had been left half a mile + behind. + </p> + <p> + And now, in the starlight, facing him, Smoke noted for the first time that + her arms were burdened, and, on feeling, discovered she carried his + snowshoes, a rifle, two belts of ammunition, and his sleeping-robes. + </p> + <p> + “I have everything fixed,” she said, with a happy little laugh. “I have + been two days making the cache. There is meat, even flour, matches, and + skees, which go best on the hard crust and, when they break through, the + webs will hold up longer. Oh, I do know snow-travel, and we shall go fast, + my lover.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke checked his speech. That she had been arranging his escape was + surprise enough, but that she had planned to go with him was more than he + was prepared for. Unable to think immediate action, he gently, one by one, + took her burdens from her. He put his arm around her and pressed her + close, and still he could not think what to do. + </p> + <p> + “God is good,” she whispered. “He sent me a lover.” + </p> + <p> + Yet Smoke was brave enough not to suggest his going alone. And before he + spoke again he saw all his memory of the bright world and the sun-lands + reel and fade. + </p> + <p> + “We will go back, Labiskwee,” he said. “You will be my wife, and we shall + live always with the Caribou People.” + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” She shook her head; and her body, in the circle of his arm, + resented his proposal. “I know. I have thought much. The hunger for the + world would come upon you, and in the long nights it would devour your + heart. Four Eyes died of hunger for the world. So would you die. All men + from the world hunger for it. And I will not have you die. We will go on + across the snow mountains on the south traverse.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, listen,” he urged. “We must go back.” + </p> + <p> + She pressed her mitten against his lips to prevent further speech. “You + love me. Say that you love me.” + </p> + <p> + “I do love you, Labiskwee. You are my wonderful sweetheart.” + </p> + <p> + Again the mitten was a caressing obstacle to utterance. + </p> + <p> + “We shall go on to the cache,” she said with decision. “It is three miles + from here. Come.” + </p> + <p> + He held back, and her pull on his arm could not move him. Almost was he + tempted to tell her of the other woman beyond the south traverse. + </p> + <p> + “It would be a great wrong to you to go back,” she said. “I—I am + only a wild girl, and I am afraid of the world; but I am more afraid for + you. You see, it is as you told me. I love you more than anybody else in + the world. I love you more than myself. The Indian language is not a good + language. The English language is not a good language. The thoughts in my + heart for you, as bright and as many as the stars—there is no + language for them. How can I tell you them? They are there—see?” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she slipped the mitten from his hand and thrust the hand + inside the warmth of her parka until it rested against her heart. Tightly + and steadily she pressed his hand in its position. And in the long silence + he felt the beat, beat of her heart, and knew that every beat of it was + love. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, still holding his hand, her + body began to incline away from his and toward the direction of the cache. + Nor could he resist. It was as if he were drawn by her heart itself that + so nearly lay in the hollow of his hand. + </p> + <p> + So firm was the crust, frozen during the night after the previous day's + surface-thaw, that they slid along rapidly on their skees. + </p> + <p> + “Just here, in the trees, is the cache,” Labiskwee told Smoke. + </p> + <p> + The next moment she caught his arm with a startle of surprise. The flames + of a small fire were dancing merrily, and crouched by the fire was McCan. + Labiskwee muttered something in Indian, and so lashlike was the sound that + Smoke remembered she had been called “cheetah” by Four Eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I was minded you'd run without me,” McCan explained when they came up, + his small peering eyes glimmering with cunning. “So I kept an eye on the + girl, an' when I seen her caching skees an' grub, I was on. I've brought + my own skees an' webs an' grub. The fire? Sure, an' it was no danger. The + camp's asleep an' snorin', an' the waitin' was cold. Will we be startin' + now?” + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee looked swift consternation at Smoke, as swiftly achieved a + judgement on the matter, and spoke. And in the speaking she showed, + child-woman though she was in love, the quick decisiveness of one who in + other affairs of life would be no clinging vine. + </p> + <p> + “McCan, you are a dog,” she hissed, and her eyes were savage with anger. + “I know it is in your heart to raise the camp if we do not take you. Very + well. We must take you. But you know my father. I am like my father. You + will do your share of the work. You will obey. And if you play one dirty + trick, it would be better for you if you had never run.” + </p> + <p> + McCan looked up at her, his small pig-eyes hating and cringing, while in + her eyes, turned to Smoke, the anger melted into luminous softness. + </p> + <p> + “Is it right, what I have said?” she queried. + </p> + <p> + Daylight found them in the belt of foothills that lay between the rolling + country and the mountains. McCan suggested breakfast, but they held on. + Not until the afternoon thaw softened the crust and prevented travel would + they eat. + </p> + <p> + The foothills quickly grew rugged, and the stream, up whose frozen bed + they journeyed, began to thread deeper and deeper canyons. The signs of + spring were less frequent, though in one canyon they found foaming bits of + open water, and twice they came upon clumps of dwarf willow upon which + were the first hints of swelling buds. + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee explained to Smoke her knowledge of the country and the way she + planned to baffle pursuit. There were but two ways out, one west, the + other south. Snass would immediately dispatch parties of young men to + guard the two trails. But there was another way south. True, it did no + more than penetrate half-way into the high mountains, then, twisting to + the west and crossing three divides, it joined the regular trail. When the + young men found no traces on the regular trail they would turn back in the + belief that the escape had been made by the west traverse, never dreaming + that the runaways had ventured the harder and longer way around. + </p> + <p> + Glancing back at McCan, in the rear, Labiskwee spoke in an undertone to + Smoke. “He is eating,” she said. “It is not good.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke looked. The Irishman was secretly munching caribou suet from the + pocketful he carried. + </p> + <p> + “No eating between meals, McCan,” he commanded. “There's no game in the + country ahead, and the grub will have to be whacked in equal rations from + the start. The only way you can travel with us is by playing fair.” + </p> + <p> + By one o'clock the crust had thawed so that the skees broke through, and + before two o'clock the web-shoes were breaking through. Camp was made and + the first meal eaten. Smoke took stock of the food. McCan's supply was a + disappointment. So many silver fox-skins had he stuffed in the bottom of + the meat bag that there was little space left for meat. + </p> + <p> + “Sure an' I didn't know there was so many,” he explained. “I done it in + the dark. But they're worth good money. An' with all this ammunition we'll + be gettin' game a-plenty.” + </p> + <p> + “The wolves will eat you a-plenty,” was Smoke's hopeless comment, while + Labiskwee's eyes flashed their anger. + </p> + <p> + Enough food for a month, with careful husbanding and appetites that never + blunted their edge, was Smoke's and Labiskwee's judgment. Smoke + apportioned the weight and bulk of the packs, yielding in the end to + Labiskwee's insistence that she, too, should carry a pack. + </p> + <p> + Next day the stream shallowed out in a wide mountain valley, and they were + already breaking through the crust on the flats when they gained the + harder surface of the slope of the divide. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes later and we wouldn't have got across the flats,” Smoke said, + when they paused for breath on the bald crest of the summit. “We must be a + thousand feet higher here.” + </p> + <p> + But Labiskwee, without speaking, pointed down to an open flat among the + trees. In the midst of it, scattered abreast, were five dark specks that + scarcely moved. + </p> + <p> + “The young men,” said Labiskwee. + </p> + <p> + “They are wallowing to their hips,” Smoke said. “They will never gain the + hard footing this day. We have hours the start of them. Come on, McCan. + Buck up. We don't eat till we can't travel.” + </p> + <p> + McCan groaned, but there was no caribou suet in his pocket, and he + doggedly brought up the rear. + </p> + <p> + In the higher valley in which they now found themselves, the crust did not + break till three in the afternoon, at which time they managed to gain the + shadow of a mountain where the crust was already freezing again. Once only + they paused to get out McCan's confiscated suet, which they ate as they + walked. The meat was frozen solid, and could be eaten only after thawing + over a fire. But the suet crumbled in their mouths and eased the + palpitating faintness in their stomachs. + </p> + <p> + Black darkness, with an overcast sky, came on after a long twilight at + nine o'clock, when they made camp in a clump of dwarf spruce. McCan was + whining and helpless. The day's march had been exhausting, but in + addition, despite his nine years' experience in the arctic, he had been + eating snow and was in agony with his parched and burning mouth. He + crouched by the fire and groaned, while they made the camp. + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee was tireless, and Smoke could not but marvel at the life in her + body, at the endurance of mind and muscle. Nor was her cheerfulness + forced. She had ever a laugh or a smile for him, and her hand lingered in + caress whenever it chanced to touch his. Yet, always, when she looked at + McCan, her face went hard and pitiless and her eyes flashed frostily. + </p> + <p> + In the night came wind and snow, and through a day of blizzard they fought + their way blindly, missing the turn of the way that led up a small stream + and crossed a divide to the west. For two more days they wandered, + crossing other and wrong divides, and in those two days they dropped + spring behind and climbed up into the abode of winter. + </p> + <p> + “The young men have lost our trail, an' what's to stop us restin' a day?” + McCan begged. + </p> + <p> + But no rest was accorded. Smoke and Labiskwee knew their danger. They were + lost in the high mountains, and they had seen no game nor signs of game. + Day after day they struggled on through an iron configuration of landscape + that compelled them to labyrinthine canyons and valleys that led rarely to + the west. Once in such a canyon, they could only follow it, no matter + where it led, for the cold peaks and higher ranges on either side were + unscalable and unendurable. The terrible toil and the cold ate up energy, + yet they cut down the size of the ration they permitted themselves. + </p> + <p> + One night Smoke was awakened by a sound of struggling. Distinctly he heard + a gasping and strangling from where McCan slept. Kicking the fire into + flame, by its light he saw Labiskwee, her hands at the Irishman's throat + and forcing from his mouth a chunk of partly chewed meat. Even as Smoke + saw this, her hand went to her hip and flashed with the sheath-knife in + it. + </p> + <p> + “Labiskwee!” Smoke cried, and his voice was peremptory. + </p> + <p> + The hand hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Don't,” he said, coming to her side. + </p> + <p> + She was shaking with anger, but the hand, after hesitating a moment + longer, descended reluctantly to the sheath. As if fearing she could not + restrain herself, she crossed to the fire and threw on more wood. McCan + sat up, whimpering and snarling, between fright and rage spluttering an + inarticulate explanation. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you get it?” Smoke demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Feel around his body,” Labiskwee said. + </p> + <p> + It was the first word she had spoken, and her voice quivered with the + anger she could not suppress. + </p> + <p> + McCan strove to struggle, but Smoke gripped him cruelly and searched him, + drawing forth from under his armpit, where it had been thawed by the heat + of his body, a strip of caribou meat. A quick exclamation from Labiskwee + drew Smoke's attention. She had sprung to McCan's pack and was opening it. + Instead of meat, out poured moss, spruce-needles, chips—all the + light refuse that had taken the place of the meat and given the pack its + due proportion minus its weight. + </p> + <p> + Again Labiskwee's hand went to her hip, and she flew at the culprit only + to be caught in Smoke's arms, where she surrendered herself, sobbing with + the futility of her rage. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, lover, it is not the food,” she panted. “It is you, your life. The + dog! He is eating you, he is eating you!” + </p> + <p> + “We will yet live,” Smoke comforted her. “Hereafter he shall carry the + flour. He can't eat that raw, and if he does I'll kill him myself, for he + will be eating your life as well as mine.” He held her closer. + “Sweetheart, killing is men's work. Women do not kill.” + </p> + <p> + “You would not love me if I killed the dog?” she questioned in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Not so much,” Smoke temporized. + </p> + <p> + She sighed with resignation. “Very well,” she said. “I shall not kill + him.” + </p> + <p> + The pursuit by the young men was relentless. By miracles of luck, as well + as by deduction from the topography of the way the runaways must take, the + young men picked up the blizzard-blinded trail and clung to it. When the + snow flew, Smoke and Labiskwee took the most improbable courses, turning + east when the better way opened south or west, rejecting a low divide to + climb a higher. Being lost, it did not matter. Yet they could not throw + the young men off. Sometimes they gained days, but always the young men + appeared again. After a storm, when all trace was lost, they would cast + out like a pack of hounds, and he who caught the later trace made smoke + signals to call his comrades on. + </p> + <p> + Smoke lost count of time, of days and nights and storms and camps. Through + a vast mad phantasmagoria of suffering and toil he and Labiskwee struggled + on, with McCan somehow stumbling along in the rear, babbling of San + Francisco, his everlasting dream. Great peaks, pitiless and serene in the + chill blue, towered about them. They fled down black canyons with walls so + precipitous that the rock frowned naked, or wallowed across glacial + valleys where frozen lakes lay far beneath their feet. And one night, + between two storms, a distant volcano glared the sky. They never saw it + again, and wondered whether it had been a dream. + </p> + <p> + Crusts were covered with yards of new snow, that crusted and were + snow-covered again. There were places, in canyon- and pocket-drifts, where + they crossed snow hundreds of feet deep, and they crossed tiny glaciers, + in drafty rifts, wind-scurried and bare of any snow. They crept like + silent wraiths across the faces of impending avalanches, or roused from + exhausted sleep to the thunder of them. They made fireless camps above + timber-line, thawing their meat-rations with the heat of their bodies ere + they could eat. And through it all Labiskwee remained Labiskwee. Her cheer + never vanished, save when she looked at McCan, and the greatest stupor of + fatigue and cold never stilled the eloquence of her love for Smoke. + </p> + <p> + Like a cat she watched the apportionment of the meager ration, and Smoke + could see that she grudged McCan every munch of his jaws. Once, she + distributed the ration. The first Smoke knew was a wild harangue of + protest from McCan. Not to him alone, but to herself, had she given a + smaller portion than to Smoke. After that, Smoke divided the meat himself. + Caught in a small avalanche one morning after a night of snow, and swept a + hundred yards down the mountain, they emerged half-stifled and unhurt, but + McCan emerged without his pack in which was all the flour. A second and + larger snow-slide buried it beyond hope of recovery. After that, though + the disaster had been through no fault of his, Labiskwee never looked at + McCan, and Smoke knew it was because she dared not. + </p> + <p> + It was a morning, stark still, clear blue above, with white sun-dazzle on + the snow. The way led up a long, wide slope of crust. They moved like + weary ghosts in a dead world. No wind stirred in the stagnant, frigid + calm. Far peaks, a hundred miles away, studding the backbone of the + Rockies up and down, were as distinct as if no more than five miles away. + </p> + <p> + “Something is going to happen,” Labiskwee whispered. “Don't you feel it?—here, + there, everywhere? Everything is strange.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel a chill that is not of cold,” Smoke answered. “Nor is it of + hunger.” + </p> + <p> + “It is in your head, your heart,” she agreed excitedly. “That is the way I + feel it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not of my senses,” Smoke diagnosed. “I sense something, from + without, that is tingling me with ice; it is a chill of my nerves.” + </p> + <p> + A quarter of an hour later they paused for breath. + </p> + <p> + “I can no longer see the far peaks,” Smoke said. + </p> + <p> + “The air is getting thick and heavy,” said Labiskwee. “It is hard to + breathe.” + </p> + <p> + “There be three suns,” McCan muttered hoarsely, reeling as he clung to his + staff for support. + </p> + <p> + There was a mock sun on either side of the real sun. + </p> + <p> + “There are five,” said Labiskwee; and as they looked, new suns formed and + flashed before their eyes. + </p> + <p> + “By Heaven, the sky is filled with suns beyant all countin',” McCan cried + in fear. + </p> + <p> + Which was true, for look where they would, half the circle of the sky + dazzled and blazed with new suns forming. + </p> + <p> + McCan yelped sharply with surprise and pain. “I'm stung!” he cried out, + then yelped again. + </p> + <p> + Then Labiskwee cried out, and Smoke felt a prickling stab on his cheek so + cold that it burned like acid. It reminded him of swimming in the salt sea + and being stung by the poisonous filaments of Portuguese men-of-war. The + sensations were so similar that he automatically brushed his cheek to rid + it of the stinging substance that was not there. + </p> + <p> + And then a shot rang out, strangely muffled. Down the slope were the young + men, standing on their skees, and one after another opened fire. + </p> + <p> + “Spread out!” Smoke commanded. “And climb for it! We're almost to the top. + They're a quarter of a mile below, and that means a couple of miles the + start of them on the down-going of the other side.” + </p> + <p> + With faces prickling and stinging from invisible atmospheric stabs, the + three scattered widely on the snow surface and toiled upward. The muffled + reports of the rifles were weird to their ears. + </p> + <p> + “Thank the Lord,” Smoke panted to Labiskwee, “that four of them are + muskets, and only one a Winchester. Besides, all these suns spoil their + aim. They are fooled. They haven't come within a hundred feet of us.” + </p> + <p> + “It shows my father's temper,” she said. “They have orders to kill.” + </p> + <p> + “How strange you talk,” Smoke said. “Your voice sounds far away.” + </p> + <p> + “Cover your mouth,” Labiskwee cried suddenly. “And do not talk. I know + what it is. Cover your mouth with your sleeve, thus, and do not talk.” + </p> + <p> + McCan fell first, and struggled wearily to his feet. And after that all + fell repeatedly ere they reached the summit. Their wills exceeded their + muscles, they knew not why, save that their bodies were oppressed by a + numbness and heaviness of movement. From the crest, looking back, they saw + the young men stumbling and falling on the upward climb. + </p> + <p> + “They will never get here,” Labiskwee said. “It is the white death. I know + it, though I have never seen it. I have heard the old men talk. Soon will + come a mist—unlike any mist or fog or frost-smoke you ever saw. Few + have seen it and lived.” + </p> + <p> + McCan gasped and strangled. + </p> + <p> + “Keep your mouth covered,” Smoke commanded. + </p> + <p> + A pervasive flashing of light from all about them drew Smoke's eyes upward + to the many suns. They were shimmering and veiling. The air was filled + with microscopic fire-glints. The near peaks were being blotted out by the + weird mist; the young men, resolutely struggling nearer, were being + engulfed in it. McCan had sunk down, squatting, on his skees, his mouth + and eyes covered by his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, make a start,” Smoke ordered. + </p> + <p> + “I can't move,” McCan moaned. + </p> + <p> + His doubled body set up a swaying motion. Smoke went toward him slowly, + scarcely able to will movement through the lethargy that weighed his + flesh. He noted that his brain was clear. It was only the body that was + afflicted. + </p> + <p> + “Let him be,” Labiskwee muttered harshly. + </p> + <p> + But Smoke persisted, dragging the Irishman to his feet and facing him down + the long slope they must go. Then he started him with a shove, and McCan, + braking and steering with his staff, shot into the sheen of diamond-dust + and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Smoke looked at Labiskwee, who smiled, though it was all she could do to + keep from sinking down. He nodded for her to push off, but she came near + to him, and side by side, a dozen feet apart, they flew down through the + stinging thickness of cold fire. + </p> + <p> + Brake as he would, Smoke's heavier body carried him past her, and he + dashed on alone, a long way, at tremendous speed that did not slacken till + he came out on a level, crusted plateau. Here he braked till Labiskwee + overtook him, and they went on, again side by side, with diminishing speed + which finally ceased. The lethargy had grown more pronounced. The wildest + effort of will could move them no more than at a snail's pace. They passed + McCan, again crouched down on his skees, and Smoke roused him with his + staff in passing. + </p> + <p> + “Now we must stop,” Labiskwee whispered painfully, “or we will die. We + must cover up—so the old men said.” + </p> + <p> + She did not delay to untie knots, but began cutting her pack-lashings. + Smoke cut his, and, with a last look at the fiery death-mist and the + mockery of suns, they covered themselves over with the sleeping-furs and + crouched in each other's arms. They felt a body stumble over them and + fall, then heard feeble whimpering and blaspheming drowned in a violent + coughing fit, and knew it was McCan who huddled against them as he wrapped + his robe about him. + </p> + <p> + Their own lung-strangling began, and they were racked and torn by a dry + cough, spasmodic and uncontrollable. Smoke noted his temperature rising in + a fever, and Labiskwee suffered similarly. Hour after hour the coughing + spells increased in frequency and violence, and not till late afternoon + was the worst reached. After that the mend came slowly, and between spells + they dozed in exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + McCan, however, steadily coughed worse, and from his groans and howls they + knew he was in delirium. Once, Smoke made as if to throw the robes back, + but Labiskwee clung to him tightly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she begged. “It is death to uncover now. Bury your face here, + against my parka, and breathe gently and do no talking—see, the way + I am doing.” + </p> + <p> + They dozed on through the darkness, though the decreasing fits of coughing + of one invariably aroused the other. It was after midnight, Smoke judged, + when McCan coughed his last. After that he emitted low and bestial + moanings that never ceased. + </p> + <p> + Smoke awoke with lips touching his lips. He lay partly in Labiskwee's + arms, his head pillowed on her breast. Her voice was cheerful and usual. + The muffled sound of it had vanished. + </p> + <p> + “It is day,” she said, lifting the edge of the robes a trifle. “See, O my + lover. It is day; we have lived through; and we no longer cough. Let us + look at the world, though I could stay here thus forever and always. This + last hour has been sweet. I have been awake, and I have been loving you.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not hear McCan,” Smoke said. “And what has become of the young men + that they have not found us?” + </p> + <p> + He threw back the robes and saw a normal and solitary sun in the sky. A + gentle breeze was blowing, crisp with frost and hinting of warmer days to + come. All the world was natural again. McCan lay on his back, his unwashed + face, swarthy from camp-smoke, frozen hard as marble. The sight did not + affect Labiskwee. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” she cried. “A snow bird! It is a good sign.” + </p> + <p> + There was no evidence of the young men. Either they had died on the other + side of the divide or they had turned back. + </p> + <p> + There was so little food that they dared not eat a tithe of what they + needed, nor a hundredth part of what they desired, and in the days that + followed, wandering through the lone mountain-land, the sharp sting of + life grew blunted and the wandering merged half into a dream. Smoke would + become abruptly conscious, to find himself staring at the never-ending + hated snow-peaks, his senseless babble still ringing in his ears. And the + next he would know, after seeming centuries, was that again he was roused + to the sound of his own maunderings. Labiskwee, too, was light-headed most + of the time. In the main their efforts were unreasoned, automatic. And + ever they worked toward the west, and ever they were baffled and thrust + north or south by snow-peaks and impassable ranges. + </p> + <p> + “There is no way south,” Labiskwee said. “The old men know. West, only + west, is the way.” + </p> + <p> + The young men no longer pursued, but famine crowded on the trail. + </p> + <p> + Came a day when it turned cold, and a thick snow, that was not snow but + frost crystals of the size of grains of sand, began to fall. All day and + night it fell, and for three days and nights it continued to fall. It was + impossible to travel until it crusted under the spring sun, so they lay in + their furs and rested, and ate less because they rested. So small was the + ration they permitted that it gave no appeasement to the hunger pang that + was much of the stomach, but more of the brain. And Labiskwee, delirious, + maddened by the taste of her tiny portion, sobbing and mumbling, yelping + sharp little animal cries of joy, fell upon the next day's portion and + crammed it into her mouth. + </p> + <p> + Then it was given to Smoke to see a wonderful thing. The food between her + teeth roused her to consciousness. She spat it out, and with a great anger + struck herself with her clenched fist on the offending mouth. + </p> + <p> + It was given to Smoke to see many wonderful things in the days yet to + come. After the long snow-fall came on a great wind that drove the dry and + tiny frost-particles as sand is driven in a sand-storm. All through the + night the sand-frost drove by, and in the full light of a clear and + wind-blown day, Smoke looked with swimming eyes and reeling brain upon + what he took to be the vision of a dream. All about towered great peaks + and small, lone sentinels and groups and councils of mighty Titans. And + from the tip of every peak, swaying, undulating, flaring out broadly + against the azure sky, streamed gigantic snow-banners, miles in length, + milky and nebulous, ever waving lights and shadows and flashing silver + from the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,” Smoke chanted, + as he gazed upon these dusts of snow wind-driven into sky-scarves of + shimmering silken light. + </p> + <p> + And still he gazed, and still the bannered peaks did not vanish, and still + he considered that he dreamed, until Labiskwee sat up among the furs. + </p> + <p> + “I dream, Labiskwee,” he said. “Look. Do you, too, dream within my dream?” + </p> + <p> + “It is no dream,” she replied. “This have the old men told me. And after + this will blow the warm winds, and we shall live and win west.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shot a snow-bird, and they divided it. Once, in a valley where + willows budded standing in the snow, he shot a snowshoe rabbit. Another + time he got a lean, white weasel. This much of meat they encountered, and + no more, though, once, half-mile high and veering toward the west and the + Yukon, they saw a wild-duck wedge drive by. + </p> + <p> + “It is summer in the lower valleys,” said Labiskwee. “Soon it will be + summer here.” + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee's face had grown thin, but the bright, large eyes were brighter + and larger, and when she looked at him she was transfigured by a wild, + unearthly beauty. + </p> + <p> + The days lengthened, and the snow began to sink. Each day the crust + thawed, each night it froze again; and they were afoot early and late, + being compelled to camp and rest during the midday hours of thaw when the + crust could not bear their weight. When Smoke grew snow-blind, Labiskwee + towed him on a thong tied to her waist. And when she was so blinded, she + towed behind a thong to his waist. And starving, in a deeper dream, they + struggled on through an awakening land bare of any life save their own. + </p> + <p> + Exhausted as he was, Smoke grew almost to fear sleep, so fearful and + bitter were the visions of that mad, twilight land. Always were they of + food, and always was the food, at his lips, snatched away by the malign + deviser of dreams. He gave dinners to his comrades of the old San + Francisco days, himself, with whetting appetite and jealous eye, directing + the arrangements, decorating the table with crimson-leafed runners of the + autumn grape. The guests were dilatory, and while he greeted them and all + sparkled with their latest cleverness, he was frantic with desire for the + table. He stole to it, unobserved, and clutched a handful of black ripe + olives, and turned to meet still another guest. And others surrounded him, + and the laugh and play of wit went on, while all the time, hidden in his + closed hand, was this madness of ripe olives. + </p> + <p> + He gave many such dinners, all with the same empty ending. He attended + Gargantuan feasts, where multitudes fed on innumerable bullocks roasted + whole, prying them out of smoldering pits and with sharp knives slicing + great strips of meat from the steaming carcasses. He stood, with mouth + agape, beneath long rows of turkeys which white-aproned shopmen sold. And + everybody bought save Smoke, mouth still agape, chained by a leadenness of + movement to the pavement. A boy again, he sat with spoon poised high above + great bowls of bread and milk. He pursued shy heifers through upland + pastures and centuries of torment in vain effort to steal from them their + milk, and in noisome dungeons he fought with rats for scraps and refuse. + There was no food that was not a madness to him, and he wandered through + vast stables, where fat horses stood in mile-long rows of stalls, and + sought but never found the bran-bins from which they fed. + </p> + <p> + Once, only, he dreamed to advantage. Famishing, shipwrecked or marooned, + he fought with the big Pacific surf for rock-clinging mussels, and carried + them up the sands to the dry flotsam of the spring tides. Of this he built + a fire, and among the coals he laid his precious trove. He watched the + steam jet forth and the locked shells pop apart, exposing the + salmon-colored meat. Cooked to a turn—he knew it; and this time + there was no intruding presence to whisk the meal away. At last—so + he dreamed within the dream—the dream would come true. This time he + would eat. Yet in his certitude he doubted, and he was steeled for the + inevitable shift of vision until the salmon-colored meat, hot and savory, + was in his mouth. His teeth closed upon it. He ate! The miracle had + happened! The shock aroused him. He awoke in the dark, lying on his back, + and heard himself mumbling little piggish squeals and grunts of joy. His + jaws were moving, and between his teeth meat was crunching. He did not + move, and soon small fingers felt about his lips, and between them was + inserted a tiny sliver of meat. And in that he would eat no more, rather + than that he was angry, Labiskwee cried and in his arms sobbed herself to + sleep. But he lay on awake, marveling at the love and the wonder of woman. + </p> + <p> + The time came when the last food was gone. The high peaks receded, the + divides became lower, and the way opened promisingly to the west. But + their reserves of strength were gone, and, without food, the time quickly + followed when they lay down at night and in the morning did not arise. + Smoke weakly gained his feet, collapsed, and on hands and knees crawled + about the building of a fire. But try as she would Labiskwee sank back + each time in an extremity of weakness. And Smoke sank down beside her, a + wan sneer on his face for the automatism that had made him struggle for an + unneeded fire. There was nothing to cook, and the day was warm. A gentle + breeze sighed in the spruce-trees, and from everywhere, under the + disappearing snow, came the trickling music of unseen streamlets. + </p> + <p> + Labiskwee lay in a stupor, her breathing so imperceptible that often Smoke + thought her dead. In the afternoon the chattering of a squirrel aroused + him. Dragging the heavy rifle, he wallowed through the crust that had + become slush. He crept on hands and knees, or stood upright and fell + forward in the direction of the squirrel that chattered its wrath and fled + slowly and tantalizingly before him. He had not the strength for a quick + shot, and the squirrel was never still. At times Smoke sprawled in the wet + snow-melt and cried out of weakness. Other times the flame of his life + flickered, and blackness smote him. How long he lay in the last faint he + did not know, but he came to, shivering in the chill of evening, his wet + clothing frozen to the re-forming crust. The squirrel was gone, and after + a weary struggle he won back to the side of Labiskwee. So profound was his + weakness that he lay like a dead man through the night, nor did dreams + disturb him. + </p> + <p> + The sun was in the sky, the same squirrel chattering through the trees, + when Labiskwee's hand on Smoke's cheek awakened him. + </p> + <p> + “Put your hand on my heart, lover,” she said, her voice clear but faint + and very far away. “My heart is my love, and you hold it in your hand.” + </p> + <p> + A long time seemed to go by, ere she spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “Remember always, there is no way south. That is well known to the Caribou + People. West—that is the way—and you are almost there—and + you will make it.” + </p> + <p> + And Smoke drowsed in the numbness that is near to death, until once more + she aroused him. + </p> + <p> + “Put your lips on mine,” she said. “I will die so.” + </p> + <p> + “We will die together, sweetheart,” was his answer. + </p> + <p> + “No.” A feeble flutter of her hand checked him, and so thin was her voice + that scarcely did he hear it, yet did he hear all of it. Her hand fumbled + and groped in the hood of her parka, and she drew forth a pouch that she + placed in his hand. “And now your lips, my lover. Your lips on my lips, + and your hand on my heart.” + </p> + <p> + And in that long kiss darkness came upon him again, and when again he was + conscious he knew that he was alone and he knew that he was to die. He was + wearily glad that he was to die. + </p> + <p> + He found his hand resting on the pouch. With an inward smile at the + curiosity that made him pull the draw-string, he opened it. Out poured a + tiny flood of food. There was no particle of it that he did not recognize, + all stolen by Labiskwee from Labiskwee—bread-fragments saved far + back in the days ere McCan lost the flour; strips and strings of + caribou-meat, partly gnawed; crumbles of suet; the hind-leg of the + snowshoe rabbit, untouched; the hind-leg and part of the fore-leg of the + white weasel; the wing dented still by her reluctant teeth, and the leg of + the snow-bird—pitiful remnants, tragic renunciations, crucifixions + of life, morsels stolen from her terrible hunger by her incredible love. + </p> + <p> + With maniacal laughter Smoke flung it all out on the hardening snow-crust + and went back into the blackness. + </p> + <p> + He dreamed. The Yukon ran dry. In its bed, among muddy pools of water and + ice-scoured rocks, he wandered, picking up fat nugget-gold. The weight of + it grew to be a burden to him, till he discovered that it was good to eat. + And greedily he ate. After all, of what worth was gold that men should + prize it so, save that it was good to eat? + </p> + <p> + He awoke to another sun. His brain was strangely clear. No longer did his + eyesight blur. The familiar palpitation that had vexed him through all his + frame was gone. The juices of his body seemed to sing, as if the spring + had entered in. Blessed well-being had come to him. He turned to awaken + Labiskwee, and saw, and remembered. He looked for the food flung out on + the snow. It was gone. And he knew that in delirium and dream it had been + the Yukon nugget-gold. In delirium and dream he had taken heart of life + from the life sacrifice of Labiskwee, who had put her heart in his hand + and opened his eyes to woman and wonder. + </p> + <p> + He was surprised at the ease of his movements, astounded that he was able + to drag her fur-wrapped body to the exposed thawed gravel-bank, which he + undermined with the ax and caved upon her. + </p> + <p> + Three days, with no further food, he fought west. In the mid third day he + fell beneath a lone spruce beside a wide stream that ran open and which he + knew must be the Klondike. Ere blackness conquered him, he unlashed his + pack, said good-by to the bright world, and rolled himself in the robes. + </p> + <p> + Chirping, sleepy noises awoke him. The long twilight was on. Above him, + among the spruce boughs, were ptarmigan. Hunger bit him into instant + action, though the action was infinitely slow. Five minutes passed before + he was able to get his rifle to his shoulder, and a second five minutes + passed ere he dared, lying on his back and aiming straight upward, to pull + the trigger. It was a clean miss. No bird fell, but no bird flew. They + ruffled and rustled stupidly and drowsily. His shoulder pained him. A + second shot was spoiled by the involuntary wince he made as he pulled + trigger. Somewhere, in the last three days, though he had no recollection + how, he must have fallen and injured it. + </p> + <p> + The ptarmigan had not flown. He doubled and redoubled the robe that had + covered him, and humped it in the hollow between his right arm and his + side. Resting the butt of the rifle on the fur, he fired again, and a bird + fell. He clutched it greedily and found that he had shot most of the meat + out of it. The large-caliber bullet had left little else than a mess of + mangled feathers. Still the ptarmigan did not fly, and he decided that it + was heads or nothing. He fired only at heads. He reloaded and reloaded the + magazine. He missed; he hit; and the stupid ptarmigan, that were loath to + fly, fell upon him in a rain of food—lives disrupted that his life + might feed and live. There had been nine of them, and in the end he + clipped the head of the ninth, and lay and laughed and wept he knew not + why. + </p> + <p> + The first he ate raw. Then he rested and slept, while his life assimilated + the life of it. In the darkness he awoke, hungry, with strength to build a + fire. And until early dawn he cooked and ate, crunching the bones to + powder between his long-idle teeth. He slept, awoke in the darkness of + another night, and slept again to another sun. + </p> + <p> + He noted with surprise that the fire crackled with fresh fuel and that a + blackened coffee-pot steamed on the edge of the coals. Beside the fire, + within arm's length, sat Shorty, smoking a brown-paper cigarette and + intently watching him. Smoke's lips moved, but a throat paralysis seemed + to come upon him, while his chest was suffused with the menace of tears. + He reached out his hand for the cigarette and drew the smoke deep into his + lungs again and again. + </p> + <p> + “I have not smoked for a long time,” he said at last, in a low calm voice. + “For a very long time.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor eaten, from your looks,” Shorty added gruffly. + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded and waved his hand at the ptarmigan feathers that lay all + about. + </p> + <p> + “Not until recently,” he returned. “Do you know, I'd like a cup of coffee. + It will taste strange. Also flapjacks and a strip of bacon.” + </p> + <p> + “And beans?” Shorty tempted. + </p> + <p> + “They would taste heavenly. I find I am quite hungry again.” + </p> + <p> + While the one cooked and the other ate, they told briefly what had + happened to them in the days since their separation. + </p> + <p> + “The Klondike was breakin' up,” Shorty concluded his recital, “an' we just + had to wait for open water. Two polin' boats, six other men—you know + 'em all, an' crackerjacks—an' all kinds of outfit. An' we've sure + been a-comin'—polin', linin' up, and portagin'. But the falls'll + stick 'em a solid week. That's where I left 'em a-cuttin' a trail over the + tops of the bluffs for the boats. I just had a sure natural hunch to keep + a-comin'. So I fills a pack with grub an' starts. I knew I'd find you + a-driftin' an' all in.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke nodded, and put forth his hand in a silent grip. “Well, let's get + started,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Started hell!” Shorty exploded. “We stay right here an' rest you up an' + feed you up for a couple of days.” + </p> + <p> + Smoke shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “If you could just see yourself,” Shorty protested. + </p> + <p> + And what he saw was not nice. Smoke's face, wherever the skin showed, was + black and purple and scabbed from repeated frost-bite. The cheeks were + fallen in, so that, despite the covering of beard, the upper rows of teeth + ridged the shrunken flesh. Across the forehead and about the deep-sunk + eyes, the skin was stretched drum-tight, while the scraggly beard, that + should have been golden, was singed by fire and filthy with camp-smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Better pack up,” Smoke said. “I'm going on.” + </p> + <p> + “But you're feeble as a kid baby. You can't hike. What's the rush?” + </p> + <p> + “Shorty, I am going after the biggest thing in the Klondike, and I can't + wait. That's all. Start packing. It's the biggest thing in the world. It's + bigger than lakes of gold and mountains of gold, bigger than adventure, + and meat-eating, and bear-killing.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty sat with bulging eyes. “In the name of the Lord, what is it?” he + queried huskily. “Or are you just simple loco?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm all right. Perhaps a fellow has to stop eating in order to see + things. At any rate, I have seen things I never dreamed were in the world. + I know what a woman is,—now.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty's mouth opened, and about the lips and in the light of the eyes was + the whimsical advertisement of the sneer forthcoming. + </p> + <p> + “Don't, please,” Smoke said gently. “You don't know. I do.” + </p> + <p> + Shorty gulped and changed his thought. “Huh! I don't need no hunch to + guess HER name. The rest of 'em has gone up to the drainin' of Surprise + Lake, but Joy Gastell allowed she wouldn't go. She's stickin' around + Dawson, waitin' to see if I come back with you. An' she sure swears, if I + don't, she'll sell her holdin's an' hire a army of gun-fighters, an' go + into the Caribou Country an' knock the everlastin' stuffin' outa old Snass + an' his whole gang. An' if you'll hold your horses a couple of shakes, I + reckon I'll get packed up an' ready to hike along with you.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Smoke Bellew, by Jack London + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMOKE BELLEW *** + +***** This file should be named 5737-h.htm or 5737-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/5/7/3/5737/ + +Produced by Les Bowler, Paul J. 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