THE WHITE MAN’S WAY AND OTHER KLONDIKE STORIES

1. To the Man on the Trail (1899)

2. Uri Bram's God (1900)

3. Siwash (1901)

4. Diable – a Dog (1902)

5. The Story of Jees Uck (1902)

6. The Sickness of Lone Chief (1902)

7. The One Thousand Dozen (1903)

8. The White Man's Way (1906)

9. A Day's Lodging (1907)

10. Trust (1908)

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1. TO THE MAN ON THE TRAIL 

'Dump it in!.' 'But I say, Kid, isn't that going it a little too strong? Whisky and alcohol's bad enough; but when it comes to brandy and pepper sauce and-' 'Dump it in. Who's making this punch, anyway?' And Malemute Kid smiled benignantly through the clouds of steam. 'By the time you've been in this country as long as I have, my son, and lived on rabbit tracks and salmon belly, you'll learn that Christmas comes only once per annum.

And a Christmas without punch is sinking a hole to bedrock with nary a pay streak.'

'Stack up on that fer a high cyard,' approved Big Jim Belden, who had come down from his claim on Mazy May to spend Christmas, and who, as everyone knew, had been living the two months past on straight moose meat. 'Hain't fergot the hooch we-uns made on the Tanana, hey yeh?' 'Well, I guess yes. Boys, it would have done your hearts good to see that whole tribe fighting drunk—and all because of a glorious ferment of sugar and sour dough. That was before your time,' Malemute Kid said as he turned to Stanley Prince, a young mining expert who had been in two years. 'No white women in the country then, and Mason wanted to get married. Ruth's father was chief of the Tananas, and objected, like the rest of the tribe. Stiff? Why, I used my last pound of sugar; finest work in that line I ever did in my life. You should have seen the chase, down the river and across the portage.' 'But the squaw?' asked Louis Savoy, the tall French Canadian, becoming interested; for he had heard of this wild deed when at Forty Mile the preceding winter.

Then Malemute Kid, who was a born raconteur, told the unvarnished tale of the Northland Lochinvar. More than one rough adventurer of the North felt his heartstrings draw closer and experienced vague yearnings for the sunnier pastures of the Southland, where life promised something more than a barren struggle with cold and death.

'We struck the Yukon just behind the first ice run,' he concluded, 'and the tribe only a quarter of an hour behind. But that saved us; for the second run broke the jam above and shut them out. When they finally got into Nuklukyeto, the whole post was ready for them.

'And as to the forgathering, ask Father Roubeau here: he performed the ceremony.' The Jesuit took the pipe from his lips but could only express his gratification with patriarchal smiles, while Protestant and Catholic vigorously applauded.

'By gar!' ejaculated Louis Savoy, who seemed overcome by the romance of it. 'La petite squaw: mon Mason brav. By gar!' Then, as the first tin cups of punch went round, Bettles the Unquenchable sprang to his feet and struck up his favorite drinking song: 'There's Henry Ward Beecher And Sunday-school teachers, All drink of the sassafras root; But you bet all the same, If it had its right name, It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.'

'Oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit,' roared out the bacchanalian chorus, 'Oh, the juice of the forbidden fruit; But you bet all the same, If it had its right name, It's the juice of the forbidden fruit.'

Malemute Kid's frightful concoction did its work; the men of the camps and trails unbent in its genial glow, and jest and song and tales of past adventure went round the board.

Aliens from a dozen lands, they toasted each and all. It was the Englishman, Prince, who pledged 'Uncle Sam, the precocious infant of the New World'; the Yankee, Bettles, who drank to 'The Queen, God bless her'; and together, Savoy and Meyers, the German trader, clanged their cups to Alsace and Lorraine.

Then Malemute Kid arose, cup in hand, and glanced at the greased-paper window, where the frost stood full three inches thick. 'A health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.' Crack!

Crack! heard the familiar music of the dog whip, the whining howl of the Malemutes, and the crunch of a sled as it drew up to the cabin. Conversation languished while they waited the issue.

'An old-timer; cares for his dogs and then himself,' whispered Malemute Kid to Prince as they listened to the snapping jaws and the wolfish snarls and yelps of pain which proclaimed to their practiced ears that the stranger was beating back their dogs while he fed his own.

Then came the expected knock, sharp and confident, and the stranger entered.

Dazzled by the light, he hesitated a moment at the door, giving to all a chance for scrutiny. He was a striking personage, and a most picturesque one, in his Arctic dress of wool and fur. Standing six foot two or three, with proportionate breadth of shoulders and depth of chest, his smooth-shaven face nipped by the cold to a gleaming pink, his long lashes and eyebrows white with ice, and the ear and neck flaps of his great wolfskin cap loosely raised, he seemed, of a verity, the Frost King, just stepped in out of the night.

Clasped outside his Mackinaw jacket, a beaded belt held two large Colt's revolvers and a hunting knife, while he carried, in addition to the inevitable dog whip, a smokeless rifle of the largest bore and latest pattern. As he came forward, for all his step was firm and elastic, they could see that fatigue bore heavily upon him.

An awkward silence had fallen, but his hearty 'What cheer, my lads?' put them quickly at ease, and the next instant Malemute Kid and he had gripped hands. Though they had never met, each had heard of the other, and the recognition was mutual. A sweeping introduction and a mug of punch were forced upon him before he could explain his errand.

How long since that basket sled, with three men and eight dogs, passed?' he asked.

'An even two days ahead. Are you after them?' 'Yes; my team. Run them off under my very nose, the cusses. I've gained two days on them already—pick them up on the next run.' 'Reckon they'll show spunk?' asked Belden, in order to keep up the conversation, for Malemute Kid already had the coffeepot on and was busily frying bacon and moose meat.

The stranger significantly tapped his revolvers.

'When'd yeh leave Dawson?' 'Twelve o'clock.' 'Last night?'—as a matter of course.

'Today.' A murmur of surprise passed round the circle. And well it might; for it was just midnight, and seventy-five miles of rough river trail was not to be sneered at for a twelve hours' run.

The talk soon became impersonal, however, harking back to the trails of childhood. As the young stranger ate of the rude fare Malemute Kid attentively studied his face. Nor was he long in deciding that it was fair, honest, and open, and that he liked it. Still youthful, the lines had been firmly traced by toil and hardship.

Though genial in conversation, and mild when at rest, the blue eyes gave promise of the hard steel-glitter which comes when called into action, especially against odds. The heavy jaw and square-cut chin demonstrated rugged pertinacity and indomitability. Nor, though the attributes of the lion were there, was there wanting the certain softness, the hint of womanliness, which bespoke the emotional nature.

'So thet's how me an' the ol' woman got spliced,' said Belden, concluding the exciting tale of his courtship. '"Here we be, Dad," sez she. "An' may yeh be damned," sez he to her, an' then to me, "Jim, yeh—yeh git outen them good duds o' yourn; I want a right peart slice o' thet forty acre plowed 'fore dinner." An' then he sort o' sniffled an' kissed her. An' I was thet happy—but he seen me an' roars out, "Yeh, Jim!" An' yeh bet I dusted fer the barn.' 'Any kids waiting for you back in the States?' asked the stranger.

'Nope; Sal died 'fore any come. Thet's why I'm here.' Belden abstractedly began to light his pipe, which had failed to go out, and then brightened up with, 'How 'bout yerself, stranger—married man?' For reply, he opened his watch, slipped it from the thong which served for a chain, and passed it over. Belden picked up the slush lamp, surveyed the inside of the case critically, and, swearing admiringly to himself, handed it over to Louis Savoy. With numerous 'By gars!' he finally surrendered it to Prince, and they noticed that his hands trembled and his eyes took on a peculiar softness. And so it passed from horny hand to horny hand—the pasted photograph of a woman, the clinging kind that such men fancy, with a babe at the breast. Those who had not yet seen the wonder were keen with curiosity; those who had became silent and retrospective. They could face the pinch of famine, the grip of scurvy, or the quick death by field or flood; but the pictured semblance of a stranger woman and child made women and children of them all.

'Never have seen the youngster yet—he's a boy, she says, and two years old,' said the stranger as he received the treasure back. A lingering moment he gazed upon it, then snapped the case and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the restrained rush of tears. Malemute Kid led him to a bunk and bade him turn in.

'Call me at four sharp. Don't fail me,' were his last words, and a moment later he was breathing in the heaviness of exhausted sleep.

'By Jove! He's a plucky chap,' commented Prince. 'Three hours' sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. Who is he, Kid?' 'Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad luck to his credit. I never knew him, but Sitka Charley told me about him.' 'It seems hard that a man with a sweet young wife like his should be putting in his years in this Godforsaken hole, where every year counts two on the outside.' 'The trouble with him is clean grit and stubbornness. He's cleaned up twice with a stake, but lost it both times.' Here the conversation was broken off by an uproar from Bettles, for the effect had begun to wear away. And soon the bleak years of monotonous grub and deadening toil were being forgotten in rough merriment. Malemute Kid alone seemed unable to lose himself, and cast many an anxious look at his watch. Once he put on his mittens and beaver-skin cap, and, leaving the cabin, fell to rummaging about in the cache. 

Nor could he wait the hour designated; for he was fifteen minutes ahead of time in rousing his guest. The young giant had stiffened badly, and brisk rubbing was necessary to bring him to his feet. He tottered painfully out of the cabin, to find his dogs harnessed and everything ready for the start. The company wished him good luck and a short chase, while Father Roubeau, hurriedly blessing him, led the stampede for the cabin; and small wonder, for it is not good to face seventy-four degrees below zero with naked ears and hands.

Malemute Kid saw him to the main trail, and there, gripping his hand heartily, gave him advice.

'You'll find a hundred pounds of salmon eggs on the sled,' he said. 'The dogs will go as far on that as with one hundred and fifty of fish, and you can't get dog food at Pelly, as you probably expected.' The stranger started, and his eyes flashed, but he did not interrupt. 'You can't get an ounce of food for dog or man till you reach Five Fingers, and that's a stiff two hundred miles. Watch out for open water on the Thirty Mile River, and be sure you take the big cutoff above Le Barge.' 'How did you know it? Surely the news can't be ahead of me already?' 'I don't know it; and what's more, I don't want to know it. But you never owned that team you're chasing. Sitka Charley sold it to them last spring. But he sized you up to me as square once, and I believe him. I've seen your face; I like it. And I've seen—why, damn you, hit the high places for salt water and that wife of yours, and—' Here the Kid unmittened and jerked out his sack.

'No; I don't need it,' and the tears froze on his cheeks as he convulsively gripped Malemute Kid's hand.

'Then don't spare the dogs; cut them out of the traces as fast as they drop; buy them, and think they're cheap at ten dollars a pound. You can get them at Five Fingers, Little Salmon, and Hootalinqua. And watch out for wet feet,' was his parting advice. 'Keep a-traveling up to twenty-five, but if it gets below that, build a fire and change your socks.'

Fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced new arrivals. The door opened, and a mounted policeman of the Northwest Territory entered, followed by two half-breed dog drivers. Like Westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. The half-breeds had been born to the trail and bore it easily; but the young policeman was badly exhausted. Still, the dogged obstinacy of his race held him to the pace he had set, and would hold him till he dropped in his tracks.

'When did Westondale pull out?' he asked. 'He stopped here, didn't he?' This was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well.

Malemute Kid had caught Belden's eye, and he, scenting the wind, replied evasively, 'A right peart while back.' 'Come, my man; speak up,' the policeman admonished.

'Yeh seem to want him right smart. Hez he ben gittin' cantankerous down Dawson way?'

'Held up Harry McFarland's for forty thousand; exchanged it at the P.C. store for a check on Seattle; and who's to stop the cashing of it if we don't overtake him? When did he pull out?'

Every eye suppressed its excitement, for Malemute Kid had given the cue, and the young officer encountered wooden faces on every hand.

Striding over to Prince, he put the question to him. Though it hurt him, gazing into the frank, earnest face of his fellow countryman, he replied inconsequentially on the state of the trail.

Then he espied Father Roubeau, who could not lie. 'A quarter of an hour ago,' the priest answered; 'but he had four hours' rest for himself and dogs.' 'Fifteen minutes' start, and he's fresh! My God!' The poor fellow staggered back, half fainting from exhaustion and disappointment, murmuring something about the run from Dawson in ten hours and the dogs being played out.

Malemute Kid forced a mug of punch upon him; then he turned for the door, ordering the dog drivers to follow. But the warmth and promise of rest were too tempting, and they objected strenuously. The Kid was conversant with their French patois, and followed it anxiously.

They swore that the dogs were gone up; that Siwash and Babette would have to be shot before the first mile was covered; that the rest were almost as bad; and that it would be better for all hands to rest up.

'Lend me five dogs?' he asked, turning to Malemute Kid.

But the Kid shook his head.

'I'll sign a check on Captain Constantine for five thousand—here's my papers—I'm authorized to draw at my own discretion.'

Again the silent refusal.

'Then I'll requisition them in the name of the Queen.' Smiling incredulously, the Kid glanced at his well-stocked arsenal, and the Englishman, realizing his impotency, turned for the door. But the dog drivers still objecting, he whirled upon them fiercely, calling them women and curs. The swart face of the older half-breed flushed angrily as he drew himself up and promised in good, round terms that he would travel his leader off his legs, and would then be delighted to plant him in the snow.

The young officer—and it required his whole will—walked steadily to the door, exhibiting a freshness he did not possess. But they all knew and appreciated his proud effort; nor could he veil the twinges of agony that shot across his face. Covered with frost, the dogs were curled up in the snow, and it was almost impossible to get them to their feet. The poor brutes whined under the stinging lash, for the dog drivers were angry and cruel; nor till Babette, the leader, was cut from the traces, could they break out the sled and get under way.

'A dirty scoundrel and a liar!' 'By gar! Him no good!' 'A thief!' 'Worse than an Indian!'

It was evident that they were angry—first at the way they had been deceived; and second at the outraged ethics of the Northland, where honesty, above all, was man's prime jewel. 

'An' we gave the cuss a hand, after knowin' what he'd did.' All eyes turned accusingly upon Malemute Kid, who rose from the corner where he had been making Babette comfortable, and silently emptied the bowl for a final round of punch.

'It's a cold night, boys—a bitter cold night,' was the irrelevant commencement of his defense. 'You've all traveled trail, and know what that stands for. Don't jump a dog when he's down. You've only heard one side. A whiter man than Jack Westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with you or me.

'Last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to Joe Castrell, to buy in on Dominion. Today he'd be a millionaire. But, while he stayed behind at Circle City, taking care of his partner with the scurvy, what does Castell do? Goes into McFarland's, jumps the limit, and drops the whole sack. Found him dead in the snow the next day. And poor Jack laying his plans to go out this winter to his wife and the boy he's never seen. You'll notice he took exactly what his partner lost—forty thousand. Well, he's gone out; and what are you going to do about it?' The Kid glanced round the circle of his judges, noted the softening of their faces, then raised his mug aloft. 'So a health to the man on trail this night; may his grub hold out; may his dogs keep their legs; may his matches never miss fire.

'God prosper him; good luck go with him; and—' 'Confusion to the Mounted Police!' cried Bettles, to the crash of the empty cups.

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2. URI BRAM'S GOD 

I

On every hand stretched the forest primeval,—the home of noisy comedy and silent tragedy.  Here the struggle for survival continued to wage with all its ancient brutality.  Briton and Russian were still to overlap in the Land of the Rainbow’s End—and this was the very heart of it—nor had Yankee gold yet purchased its vast domain.  The wolf-pack still clung to the flank of the cariboo-herd, singling out the weak and the big with calf, and pulling them down as remorselessly as were it a thousand, thousand generations into the past.  The sparse aborigines still acknowledged the rule of their chiefs and medicine men, drove out bad spirits, burned their witches, fought their neighbors, and ate their enemies with a relish which spoke well of their bellies.  But it was at the moment when the stone age was drawing to a close.  Already, over unknown trails and chartless wildernesses, were the harbingers of the steel arriving,—fair-faced, blue-eyed, indomitable men, incarnations of the unrest of their race.  By accident or design, single-handed and in twos and threes, they came from no one knew whither, and fought, or died, or passed on, no one knew whence.  The priests raged against them, the chiefs called forth their fighting men, and stone clashed with steel; but to little purpose.  Like water seeping from some mighty reservoir, they trickled through the dark forests and mountain passes, threading the highways in bark canoes, or with their moccasined feet breaking trail for the wolf-dogs.  They came of a great breed, and their mothers were many; but the fur-clad denizens of the Northland had this yet to learn.  So many an unsung wanderer fought his last and died under the cold fire of the aurora, as did his brothers in burning sands and reeking jungles, and as they shall continue to do till in the fulness of time the destiny of their race be achieved.

It was near twelve.  Along the northern horizon a rosy glow, fading to the west and deepening to the east, marked the unseen dip of the midnight sun.  The gloaming and the dawn were so commingled that there was no night,—simply a wedding of day with day, a scarcely perceptible blending of two circles of the sun.  A kildee timidly chirped good-night; the full, rich throat of a robin proclaimed good-morrow.  From an island on the breast of the Yukon a colony of wild fowl voiced its interminable wrongs, while a loon laughed mockingly back across a still stretch of river.

In the foreground, against the bank of a lazy eddy, birch-bark canoes were lined two and three deep.  Ivory-bladed spears, bone-barbed arrows, buckskin-thonged bows, and simple basket-woven traps bespoke the fact that in the muddy current of the river the salmon-run was on.  In the background, from the tangle of skin tents and drying frames, rose the voices of the fisher folk.  Bucks skylarked with bucks or flirted with the maidens, while the older squaws, shut out from this by virtue of having fulfilled the end of their existence in reproduction, gossiped as they braided rope from the green roots of trailing vines.  At their feet their naked progeny played and squabbled, or rolled in the muck with the tawny wolf-dogs.

To one side of the encampment, and conspicuously apart from it, stood a second camp of two tents.  But it was a white man’s camp.  If nothing else, the choice of position at least bore convincing evidence of this.  In case of offence, it commanded the Indian quarters a hundred yards away; of defence, a rise to the ground and the cleared intervening space; and last, of defeat, the swift slope of a score of yards to the canoes below.  From one of the tents came the petulant cry of a sick child and the crooning song of a mother.  In the open, over the smouldering embers of a fire, two men held talk.

“Eh?  I love the church like a good son.  Bien!  So great a love that my days have been spent in fleeing away from her, and my nights in dreaming dreams of reckoning.  Look you!”  The half-breed’s voice rose to an angry snarl.  “I am Red River born.  My father was white—as white as you.  But you are Yankee, and he was British bred, and a gentleman’s son.  And my mother was the daughter of a chief, and I was a man.  Ay, and one had to look the second time to see what manner of blood ran in my veins; for I lived with the whites, and was one of them, and my father’s heart beat in me.  It happened there was a maiden—white—who looked on me with kind eyes.  Her father had much land and many horses; also he was a big man among his people, and his blood was the blood of the French.  He said the girl knew not her own mind, and talked overmuch with her, and became wroth that such things should be. 

“But she knew her mind, for we came quick before the priest.  And quicker had come her father, with lying words, false promises, I know not what; so that the priest stiffened his neck and would not make us that we might live one with the other.  As at the beginning it was the church which would not bless my birth, so now it was the church which refused me marriage and put the blood of men upon my hands.  Bien!  Thus have I cause to love the church.  So I struck the priest on his woman’s mouth, and we took swift horses, the girl and I, to Fort Pierre, where was a minister of good heart.  But hot on our trail was her father, and brothers, and other men he had gathered to him.  And we fought, our horses on the run, till I emptied three saddles and the rest drew off and went on to Fort Pierre.  Then we took east, the girl and I, to the hills and forests, and we lived one with the other, and we were not married,—the work of the good church which I love like a son.

“But mark you, for this is the strangeness of woman, the way of which no man may understand.  One of the saddles I emptied was that of her father’s, and the hoofs of those who came behind had pounded him into the earth.  This we saw, the girl and I, and this I had forgot had she not remembered.  And in the quiet of the evening, after the day’s hunt were done, it came between us, and in the silence of the night when we lay beneath the stars and should have been one.  It was there always.  She never spoke, but it sat by our fire and held us ever apart.  She tried to put it aside, but at such times it would rise up till I could read it in the look of her eyes, in the very intake of her breath.

“So in the end she bore me a child, a woman-child, and died.  Then I went among my mother’s people, that it might nurse at a warm breast and live.  But my hands were wet with the blood of men, look you, because of the church, wet with the blood of men.  And the Riders of the North came for me, but my mother’s brother, who was then chief in his own right, hid me and gave me horses and food.  And we went away, my woman-child and I, even to the Hudson Bay Country, where white men were few and the questions they asked not many.  And I worked for the company a hunter, as a guide, as a driver of dogs, till my woman-child was become a woman, tall, and slender, and fair to the eye.

“You know the winter, long and lonely, breeding evil thoughts and bad deeds.  The Chief Factor was a hard man, and bold.  And he was not such that a woman would delight in looking upon.  But he cast eyes upon my woman-child who was become a woman.  Mother of God! he sent me away on a long trip with the dogs, that he might—you understand, he was a hard man and without heart.  She was most white, and her soul was white, and a good woman, and—well, she died.

“It was bitter cold the night of my return, and I had been away months, and the dogs were limping sore when I came to the fort.  The Indians and breeds looked on me in silence, and I felt the fear of I knew not what, but I said nothing till the dogs were fed and I had eaten as a man with work before him should.  Then I spoke up, demanding the word, and they shrank from me, afraid of my anger and what I should do; but the story came out, the pitiful story, word for word and act for act, and they marvelled that I should be so quiet.

“When they had done I went to the Factor’s house, calmer than now in the telling of it.  He had been afraid and called upon the breeds to help him; but they were not pleased with the deed, and had left him to lie on the bed he had made.  So he had fled to the house of the priest.  Thither I followed.  But when I was come to that place, the priest stood in my way, and spoke soft words, and said a man in anger should go neither to the right nor left, but straight to God.  I asked by the right of a father’s wrath that he give me past, but he said only over his body, and besought with me to pray.  Look you, it was the church, always the church; for I passed over his body and sent the Factor to meet my woman-child before his god, which is a bad god, and the god of the white men.

“Then was there hue and cry, for word was sent to the station below, and I came away.  Through the Land of the Great Slave, down the Valley of the Mackenzie to the never-opening ice, over the White Rockies, past the Great Curve of the Yukon, even to this place did I come.  And from that day to this, yours is the first face of my father’s people I have looked upon.  May it be the last!  These people, which are my people, are a simple folk, and I have been raised to honor among them.  My word is their law, and their priests but do my bidding, else would I not suffer them.  When I speak for them I speak for myself.  We ask to be let alone.  We do not want your kind.  If we permit you to sit by our fires, after you will come your church, your priests, and your gods.  And know this, for each white man who comes to my village, him will I make deny his god.  You are the first, and I give you grace.  So it were well you go, and go quickly.”

“I am not responsible for my brothers,” the second man spoke up, filling his pipe in a meditative manner.  Hay Stockard was at times as thoughtful of speech as he was wanton of action; but only at times.

“But I know your breed,” responded the other.  “Your brothers are many, and it is you and yours who break the trail for them to follow.  In time they shall come to possess the land, but not in my time.  Already, have I heard, are they on the head-reaches of the Great River, and far away below are the Russians.”

Hay Stockard lifted his head with a quick start.  This was startling geographical information.  The Hudson Bay post at Fort Yukon had other notions concerning the course of the river, believing it to flow into the Arctic.

“Then the Yukon empties into Bering Sea?” he asked.

“I do not know, but below there are Russians, many Russians.  Which is neither here nor there.  You may go on and see for yourself; you may go back to your brothers; but up the Koyukuk you shall not go while the priests and fighting men do my bidding.  Thus do I command, I, Baptiste the Red, whose word is law and who am head man over this people.”

“And should I not go down to the Russians, or back to my brothers?”

“Then shall you go swift-footed before your god, which is a bad god, and the god of the white men.”

The red sun shot up above the northern sky-line, dripping and bloody.  Baptiste the Red came to his feet, nodded curtly, and went back to his camp amid the crimson shadows and the singing of the robins. 

Hay Stockard finished his pipe by the fire, picturing in smoke and coal the unknown upper reaches of the Koyukuk, the strange stream which ended here its arctic travels and merged its waters with the muddy Yukon flood.  Somewhere up there, if the dying words of a ship-wrecked sailorman who had made the fearful overland journey were to be believed, and if the vial of golden grains in his pouch attested anything,—somewhere up there, in that home of winter, stood the Treasure House of the North.  And as keeper of the gate, Baptiste the Red, English half-breed and renegade, barred the way.

“Bah!”  He kicked the embers apart and rose to his full height, arms lazily outstretched, facing the flushing north with careless soul.

II

Hay Stockard swore, harshly, in the rugged monosyllables of his mother tongue.  His wife lifted her gaze from the pots and pans, and followed his in a keen scrutiny of the river.  She was a woman of the Teslin Country, wise in the ways of her husband’s vernacular when it grew intensive.  From the slipping of a snow-shoe thong to the forefront of sudden death, she could gauge occasion by the pitch and volume of his blasphemy.  So she knew the present occasion merited attention.  A long canoe, with paddles flashing back the rays of the westering sun, was crossing the current from above and urging in for the eddy.  Hay Stockard watched it intently.  Three men rose and dipped, rose and dipped, in rhythmical precision; but a red bandanna, wrapped about the head of one, caught and held his eye.

“Bill!” he called.  “Oh, Bill!”

A shambling, loose-jointed giant rolled out of one of the tents, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  Then he sighted the strange canoe and was wide awake on the instant.

“By the jumping Methuselah!  That damned sky-pilot!”

Hay Stockard nodded his head bitterly, half-reached for his rifle, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Pot-shot him,” Bill suggested, “and settle the thing out of hand.  He’ll spoil us sure if we don’t.”  But the other declined this drastic measure and turned away, at the same time bidding the woman return to her work, and calling Bill back from the bank.  The two Indians in the canoe moored it on the edge of the eddy, while its white occupant, conspicuous by his gorgeous head-gear, came up the bank.

“Like Paul of Tarsus, I give you greeting.  Peace be unto you and grace before the Lord.”

His advances were met sullenly, and without speech.

“To you, Hay Stockard, blasphemer and Philistine, greeting.  In your heart is the lust of Mammon, in your mind cunning devils, in your tent this woman whom you live with in adultery; yet of these divers sins, even here in the wilderness, I, Sturges Owen, apostle to the Lord, bid you to repent and cast from you your iniquities.”

“Save your cant!  Save your cant!” Hay Stockard broke in testily.  “You’ll need all you’ve got, and more, for Red Baptiste over yonder.”

He waved his hand toward the Indian camp, where the half-breed was looking steadily across, striving to make out the newcomers.  Sturges Owen, disseminator of light and apostle to the Lord, stepped to the edge of the steep and commanded his men to bring up the camp outfit.  Stockard followed him.

“Look here,” he demanded, plucking the missionary by the shoulder and twirling him about.  “Do you value your hide?”

“My life is in the Lord’s keeping, and I do but work in His vineyard,” he replied solemnly.

“Oh, stow that!  Are you looking for a job of martyrship?”

“If He so wills.”

“Well, you’ll find it right here, but I’m going to give you some advice first.  Take it or leave it.  If you stop here, you’ll be cut off in the midst of your labors.  And not you alone, but your men, Bill, my wife—”

“Who is a daughter of Belial and hearkeneth not to the true Gospel.”

“And myself.  Not only do you bring trouble upon yourself, but upon us.  I was frozen in with you last winter, as you will well recollect, and I know you for a good man and a fool.  If you think it your duty to strive with the heathen, well and good; but, do exercise some wit in the way you go about it.  This man, Red Baptiste, is no Indian.  He comes of our common stock, is as bull-necked as I ever dared be, and as wild a fanatic the one way as you are the other.  When you two come together, hell’ll be to pay, and I don’t care to be mixed up in it.  Understand?  So take my advice and go away.  If you go down-stream, you’ll fall in with the Russians.  There’s bound to be Greek priests among them, and they’ll see you safe through to Bering Sea,—that’s where the Yukon empties,—and from there it won’t be hard to get back to civilization.  Take my word for it and get out of here as fast as God’ll let you.”

“He who carries the Lord in his heart and the Gospel in his hand hath no fear of the machinations of man or devil,” the missionary answered stoutly.  “I will see this man and wrestle with him.  One backslider returned to the fold is a greater victory than a thousand heathen.  He who is strong for evil can be as mighty for good, witness Saul when he journeyed up to Damascus to bring Christian captives to Jerusalem.  And the voice of the Saviour came to him, crying, ‘Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?’  And therewith Paul arrayed himself on the side of the Lord, and thereafter was most mighty in the saving of souls.  And even as thou, Paul of Tarsus, even so do I work in the vineyard of the Lord, bearing trials and tribulations, scoffs and sneers, stripes and punishments, for His dear sake.”

“Bring up the little bag with the tea and a kettle of water,” he called the next instant to his boatmen; “not forgetting the haunch of cariboo and the mixing-pan.”

When his men, converts by his own hand, had gained the bank, the trio fell to their knees, hands and backs burdened with camp equipage, and offered up thanks for their passage through the wilderness and their safe arrival.  Hay Stockard looked upon the function with sneering disapproval, the romance and solemnity of it lost to his matter-of-fact soul.  Baptiste the Red, still gazing across, recognized the familiar postures, and remembered the girl who had shared his star-roofed couch in the hills and forests, and the woman-child who lay somewhere by bleak Hudson’s Bay.

III

“Confound it, Baptiste, couldn’t think of it.  Not for a moment.  Grant that this man is a fool and of small use in the nature of things, but still, you know, I can’t give him up.”

Hay Stockard paused, striving to put into speech the rude ethics of his heart.

“He’s worried me, Baptiste, in the past and now, and caused me all manner of troubles; but can’t you see, he’s my own breed—white—and—and—why, I couldn’t buy my life with his, not if he was a nigger.”

“So be it,” Baptiste the Red made answer.  “I have given you grace and choice.  I shall come presently, with my priests and fighting men, and either shall I kill you, or you deny your god.  Give up the priest to my pleasure, and you shall depart in peace.  Otherwise your trail ends here.  My people are against you to the babies.  Even now have the children stolen away your canoes.”  He pointed down to the river.  Naked boys had slipped down the water from the point above, cast loose the canoes, and by then had worked them into the current.  When they had drifted out of rifle-shot they clambered over the sides and paddled ashore.

“Give me the priest, and you may have them back again.  Come!  Speak your mind, but without haste.”

Stockard shook his head.  His glance dropped to the woman of the Teslin Country with his boy at her breast, and he would have wavered had he not lifted his eyes to the men before him.

“I am not afraid,” Sturges Owen spoke up.  “The Lord bears me in his right hand, and alone am I ready to go into the camp of the unbeliever.  It is not too late.  Faith may move mountains.  Even in the eleventh hour may I win his soul to the true righteousness.”

“Trip the beggar up and make him fast,” Bill whispered hoarsely in the ear of his leader, while the missionary kept the floor and wrestled with the heathen.  “Make him hostage, and bore him if they get ugly.”

“No,” Stockard answered.  “I gave him my word that he could speak with us unmolested.  Rules of warfare, Bill; rules of warfare.  He’s been on the square, given us warning, and all that, and—why, damn it, man, I can’t break my word!”

“He’ll keep his, never fear.”

“Don’t doubt it, but I won’t let a half-breed outdo me in fair dealing.  Why not do what he wants,—give him the missionary and be done with it?”

“N-no,” Bill hesitated doubtfully.

“Shoe pinches, eh?”

Bill flushed a little and dropped the discussion.  Baptiste the Red was still waiting the final decision.  Stockard went up to him.

“It’s this way, Baptiste.  I came to your village minded to go up the Koyukuk.  I intended no wrong.  My heart was clean of evil.  It is still clean.  Along comes this priest, as you call him.  I didn’t bring him here.  He’d have come whether I was here or not.  But now that he is here, being of my people, I’ve got to stand by him.  And I’m going to.  Further, it will be no child’s play.  When you have done, your village will be silent and empty, your people wasted as after a famine.  True, we will he gone; likewise the pick of your fighting men—”

“But those who remain shall be in peace, nor shall the word of strange gods and the tongues of strange priests be buzzing in their ears.”

Both men shrugged their shoulder and turned away, the half-breed going back to his own camp.  The missionary called his two men to him, and they fell into prayer.  Stockard and Bill attacked the few standing pines with their axes, felling them into convenient breastworks.  The child had fallen asleep, so the woman placed it on a heap of furs and lent a hand in fortifying the camp.  Three sides were thus defended, the steep declivity at the rear precluding attack from that direction.  When these arrangements had been completed, the two men stalked into the open, clearing away, here and there, the scattered underbrush.  From the opposing camp came the booming of war-drums and the voices of the priests stirring the people to anger.

“Worst of it is they’ll come in rushes,” Bill complained as they walked back with shouldered axes.

“And wait till midnight, when the light gets dim for shooting.”

“Can’t start the ball a-rolling too early, then.”  Bill exchanged the axe for a rifle, and took a careful rest.  One of the medicine-men, towering above his tribesmen, stood out distinctly.  Bill drew a bead on him.

“All ready?” he asked.

Stockard opened the ammunition box, placed the woman where she could reload in safety, and gave the word.  The medicine-man dropped.  For a moment there was silence, then a wild howl went up and a flight of bone arrows fell short.

“I’d like to take a look at the beggar,” Bill remarked, throwing a fresh shell into place.  “I’ll swear I drilled him clean between the eyes.” 

“Didn’t work.”  Stockard shook his head gloomily.  Baptiste had evidently quelled the more warlike of his followers, and instead of precipitating an attack in the bright light of day, the shot had caused a hasty exodus, the Indians drawing out of the village beyond the zone of fire.

In the full tide of his proselyting fervor, borne along by the hand of God, Sturges Owen would have ventured alone into the camp of the unbeliever, equally prepared for miracle or martyrdom; but in the waiting which ensued, the fever of conviction died away gradually, as the natural man asserted itself.  Physical fear replaced spiritual hope; the love of life, the love of God.  It was no new experience.  He could feel his weakness coming on, and knew it of old time.  He had struggled against it and been overcome by it before.  He remembered when the other men had driven their paddles like mad in the van of a roaring ice-flood, how, at the critical moment, in a panic of worldly terror, he had dropped his paddle and besought wildly with his God for pity.  And there were other times.  The recollection was not pleasant.  It brought shame to him that his spirit should be so weak and his flesh so strong.  But the love of life! the love of life!  He could not strip it from him.  Because of it had his dim ancestors perpetuated their line; because of it was he destined to perpetuate his.  His courage, if courage it might be called, was bred of fanaticism.  The courage of Stockard and Bill was the adherence to deep-rooted ideals.  Not that the love of life was less, but the love of race tradition more; not that they were unafraid to die, but that they were brave enough not to live at the price of shame.

The missionary rose, for the moment swayed by the mood of sacrifice.  He half crawled over the barricade to proceed to the other camp, but sank back, a trembling mass, wailing: “As the spirit moves!  As the spirit moves!  Who am I that I should set aside the judgments of God?  Before the foundations of the world were all things written in the book of life.  Worm that I am, shall I erase the page or any portion thereof?  As God wills, so shall the spirit move!”

Bill reached over, plucked him to his feet, and shook him, fiercely, silently.  Then he dropped the bundle of quivering nerves and turned his attention to the two converts.  But they showed little fright and a cheerful alacrity in preparing for the coming passage at arms.

Stockard, who had been talking in undertones with the Teslin woman, now turned to the missionary.

“Fetch him over here,” he commanded of Bill.

“Now,” he ordered, when Sturges Owen had been duly deposited before him, “make us man and wife, and be lively about it.”  Then he added apologetically to Bill: “No telling how it’s to end, so I just thought I’d get my affairs straightened up.”

The woman obeyed the behest of her white lord.  To her the ceremony was meaningless.  By her lights she was his wife, and had been from the day they first foregathered.  The converts served as witnesses.  Bill stood over the missionary, prompting him when he stumbled.  Stockard put the responses in the woman’s mouth, and when the time came, for want of better, ringed her finger with thumb and forefinger of his own.

“Kiss the bride!” Bill thundered, and Sturges Owen was too weak to disobey.

“Now baptize the child!”

“Neat and tidy,” Bill commented.

“Gathering the proper outfit for a new trail,” the father explained, taking the boy from the mother’s arms.  “I was grub-staked, once, into the Cascades, and had everything in the kit except salt.  Never shall forget it.  And if the woman and the kid cross the divide to-night they might as well be prepared for pot-luck.  A long shot, Bill, between ourselves, but nothing lost if it misses.”

A cup of water served the purpose, and the child was laid away in a secure corner of the barricade.  The men built the fire, and the evening meal was cooked.

The sun hurried round to the north, sinking closer to the horizon.  The heavens in that quarter grew red and bloody.  The shadows lengthened, the light dimmed, and in the sombre recesses of the forest life slowly died away.  Even the wild fowl in the river softened their raucous chatter and feigned the nightly farce of going to bed.  Only the tribesmen increased their clamor, war-drums booming and voices raised in savage folk songs.  But as the sun dipped they ceased their tumult.  The rounded hush of midnight was complete.  Stockard rose to his knees and peered over the logs.  Once the child wailed in pain and disconcerted him.  The mother bent over it, but it slept again.  The silence was interminable, profound.  Then, of a sudden, the robins burst into full-throated song.  The night had passed.

A flood of dark figures boiled across the open.  Arrows whistled and bow-thongs sang.  The shrill-tongued rifles answered back.  A spear, and a mighty cast, transfixed the Teslin woman as she hovered above the child.  A spent arrow, diving between the logs, lodged in the missionary’s arm.

There was no stopping the rush.  The middle distance was cumbered with bodies, but the rest surged on, breaking against and over the barricade like an ocean wave.  Sturges Owen fled to the tent, while the men were swept from their feet, buried beneath the human tide.  Hay Stockard alone regained the surface, flinging the tribesmen aside like yelping curs.  He had managed to seize an axe.  A dark hand grasped the child by a naked foot, and drew it from beneath its mother.  At arm’s length its puny body circled through the air, dashing to death against the logs.  Stockard clove the man to the chin and fell to clearing space.  The ring of savage faces closed in, raining upon him spear-thrusts and bone-barbed arrows.  The sun shot up, and they swayed back and forth in the crimson shadows.  Twice, with his axe blocked by too deep a blow, they rushed him; but each time he flung them clear.  They fell underfoot and he trampled dead and dying, the way slippery with blood.  And still the day brightened and the robins sang.  Then they drew back from him in awe, and he leaned breathless upon his axe.

“Blood of my soul!” cried Baptiste the Red.  “But thou art a man.  Deny thy god, and thou shalt yet live.”

Stockard swore his refusal, feebly but with grace.

“Behold!  A woman!”  Sturges Owen had been brought before the half-breed.

Beyond a scratch on the arm, he was uninjured, but his eyes roved about him in an ecstasy of fear.  The heroic figure of the blasphemer, bristling with wounds and arrows, leaning defiantly upon his axe, indifferent, indomitable, superb, caught his wavering vision.  And he felt a great envy of the man who could go down serenely to the dark gates of death.  Surely Christ, and not he, Sturges Owen, had been moulded in such manner.  And why not he?  He felt dimly the curse of ancestry, the feebleness of spirit which had come down to him out of the past, and he felt an anger at the creative force, symbolize it as he would, which had formed him, its servant, so weakly.  For even a stronger man, this anger and the stress of circumstance were sufficient to breed apostasy, and for Sturges Owen it was inevitable.  In the fear of man’s anger he would dare the wrath of God.  He had been raised up to serve the Lord only that he might be cast down.  He had been given faith without the strength of faith; he had been given spirit without the power of spirit.  It was unjust.

“Where now is thy god?” the half-breed demanded.

“I do not know.”  He stood straight and rigid, like a child repeating a catechism.

“Hast thou then a god at all?”

“I had.”

“And now?”

“No.”

Hay Stockard swept the blood from his eyes and laughed.  The missionary looked at him curiously, as in a dream.  A feeling of infinite distance came over him, as though of a great remove.  In that which had transpired, and which was to transpire, he had no part.  He was a spectator—at a distance, yes, at a distance.  The words of Baptiste came to him faintly:-

“Very good.  See that this man go free, and that no harm befall him.  Let him depart in peace.  Give him a canoe and food.  Set his face toward the Russians, that he may tell their priests of Baptiste the Red, in whose country there is no god.”

They led him to the edge of the steep, where they paused to witness the final tragedy.  The half-breed turned to Hay Stockard.

“There is no god,” he prompted.

The man laughed in reply.  One of the young men poised a war-spear for the cast.

“Hast thou a god?”

“Ay, the God of my fathers.”

He shifted the axe for a better grip.  Baptiste the Red gave the sign, and the spear hurtled full against his breast.  Sturges Owen saw the ivory head stand out beyond his back, saw the man sway, laughing, and snap the shaft short as he fell upon it.  Then he went down to the river, that he might carry to the Russians the message of Baptiste the Red, in whose country there was no god.

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3. SIWASH 

“If I was a man—”  Her words were in themselves indecisive, but the withering contempt which flashed from her black eyes was not lost upon the men-folk in the tent.

Tommy, the English sailor, squirmed, but chivalrous old Dick Humphries, Cornish fisherman and erstwhile American salmon capitalist, beamed upon her benevolently as ever.  He bore women too large a portion of his rough heart to mind them, as he said, when they were in the doldrums, or when their limited vision would not permit them to see all around a thing.  So they said nothing, these two men who had taken the half-frozen woman into their tent three days back, and who had warmed her, and fed her, and rescued her goods from the Indian packers.  This latter had necessitated the payment of numerous dollars, to say nothing of a demonstration in force—Dick Humphries squinting along the sights of a Winchester while Tommy apportioned their wages among them at his own appraisement.  It had been a little thing in itself, but it meant much to a woman playing a desperate single-hand in the equally desperate Klondike rush of ’97.  Men were occupied with their own pressing needs, nor did they approve of women playing, single-handed, the odds of the arctic winter.  “If I was a man, I know what I would do.”  Thus reiterated Molly, she of the flashing eyes, and therein spoke the cumulative grit of five American-born generations.

In the succeeding silence, Tommy thrust a pan of biscuits into the Yukon stove and piled on fresh fuel.  A reddish flood pounded along under his sun-tanned skin, and as he stooped, the skin of his neck was scarlet.  Dick palmed a three-cornered sail needle through a set of broken pack straps, his good nature in nowise disturbed by the feminine cataclysm which was threatening to burst in the storm-beaten tent.

“And if you was a man?” he asked, his voice vibrant with kindness.  The three-cornered needle jammed in the damp leather, and he suspended work for the moment.

“I’d be a man.  I’d put the straps on my back and light out.  I wouldn’t lay in camp here, with the Yukon like to freeze most any day, and the goods not half over the portage.  And you—you are men, and you sit here, holding your hands, afraid of a little wind and wet.  I tell you straight, Yankee-men are made of different stuff.  They’d be hitting the trail for Dawson if they had to wade through hell-fire.  And you, you—I wish I was a man.” 

“I’m very glad, my dear, that you’re not.”  Dick Humphries threw the bight of the sail twine over the point of the needle and drew it clear with a couple of deft turns and a jerk.

A snort of the gale dealt the tent a broad-handed slap as it hurtled past, and the sleet rat-tat-tatted with snappy spite against the thin canvas.  The smoke, smothered in its exit, drove back through the fire-box door, carrying with it the pungent odor of green spruce.

“Good Gawd!  Why can’t a woman listen to reason?”  Tommy lifted his head from the denser depths and turned upon her a pair of smoke-outraged eyes.

“And why can’t a man show his manhood?”

Tommy sprang to his feet with an oath which would have shocked a woman of lesser heart, ripped loose the sturdy reef-knots and flung back the flaps of the tent.

The trio peered out.  It was not a heartening spectacle.  A few water-soaked tents formed the miserable foreground, from which the streaming ground sloped to a foaming gorge.  Down this ramped a mountain torrent.  Here and there, dwarf spruce, rooting and grovelling in the shallow alluvium, marked the proximity of the timber line.  Beyond, on the opposing slope, the vague outlines of a glacier loomed dead-white through the driving rain.  Even as they looked, its massive front crumbled into the valley, on the breast of some subterranean vomit, and it lifted its hoarse thunder above the screeching voice of the storm.  Involuntarily, Molly shrank back.

“Look, woman!  Look with all your eyes!  Three miles in the teeth of the gale to Crater Lake, across two glaciers, along the slippery rim-rock, knee-deep in a howling river!  Look, I say, you Yankee woman!  Look!  There’s your Yankee-men!”  Tommy pointed a passionate hand in the direction of the struggling tents.  “Yankees, the last mother’s son of them.  Are they on trail?  Is there one of them with the straps to his back?  And you would teach us men our work?  Look, I say!”

Another tremendous section of the glacier rumbled earthward.  The wind whipped in at the open doorway, bulging out the sides of the tent till it swayed like a huge bladder at its guy ropes.  The smoke swirled about them, and the sleet drove sharply into their flesh.  Tommy pulled the flaps together hastily, and returned to his tearful task at the fire-box.  Dick Humphries threw the mended pack straps into a corner and lighted his pipe.  Even Molly was for the moment persuaded.

“There’s my clothes,” she half-whimpered, the feminine for the moment prevailing.  “They’re right at the top of the cache, and they’ll be ruined!  I tell you, ruined!”

“There, there,” Dick interposed, when the last quavering syllable had wailed itself out.  “Don’t let that worry you, little woman.  I’m old enough to be your father’s brother, and I’ve a daughter older than you, and I’ll tog you out in fripperies when we get to Dawson if it takes my last dollar.”

“When we get to Dawson!”  The scorn had come back to her throat with a sudden surge.  “You’ll rot on the way, first.  You’ll drown in a mudhole.  You—you—Britishers!”

The last word, explosive, intensive, had strained the limits of her vituperation.  If that would not stir these men, what could?  Tommy’s neck ran red again, but he kept his tongue between his teeth.  Dick’s eyes mellowed.  He had the advantage over Tommy, for he had once had a white woman for a wife.

The blood of five American-born generations is, under certain circumstances, an uncomfortable heritage; and among these circumstances might be enumerated that of being quartered with next of kin.  These men were Britons.  On sea and land her ancestry and the generations thereof had thrashed them and theirs.  On sea and land they would continue to do so.  The traditions of her race clamored for vindication.  She was but a woman of the present, but in her bubbled the whole mighty past.  It was not alone Molly Travis who pulled on gum boots, mackintosh, and straps; for the phantom hands of ten thousand forbears drew tight the buckles, just so as they squared her jaw and set her eyes with determination.  She, Molly Travis, intended to shame these Britishers; they, the innumerable shades, were asserting the dominance of the common race.

The men-folk did not interfere.  Once Dick suggested that she take his oilskins, as her mackintosh was worth no more than paper in such a storm.  But she sniffed her independence so sharply that he communed with his pipe till she tied the flaps on the outside and slushed away on the flooded trail.

“Think she’ll make it?”  Dick’s face belied the indifference of his voice.

“Make it?  If she stands the pressure till she gets to the cache, what of the cold and misery, she’ll be stark, raving mad.  Stand it?  She’ll be dumb-crazed.  You know it yourself, Dick.  You’ve wind-jammed round the Horn.  You know what it is to lay out on a topsail yard in the thick of it, bucking sleet and snow and frozen canvas till you’re ready to just let go and cry like a baby.  Clothes?  She won’t be able to tell a bundle of skirts from a gold pan or a tea-kettle.”

“Kind of think we were wrong in letting her go, then?”

“Not a bit of it.  So help me, Dick, she’d ’a’ made this tent a hell for the rest of the trip if we hadn’t.  Trouble with her she’s got too much spirit.  This’ll tone it down a bit.”

“Yes,” Dick admitted, “she’s too ambitious.  But then Molly’s all right.  A cussed little fool to tackle a trip like this, but a plucky sight better than those pick-me-up-and-carry-me kind of women.  She’s the stock that carried you and me, Tommy, and you’ve got to make allowance for the spirit.  Takes a woman to breed a man.  You can’t suck manhood from the dugs of a creature whose only claim to womanhood is her petticoats.  Takes a she-cat, not a cow, to mother a tiger.”

“And when they’re unreasonable we’ve got to put up with it, eh?”

“The proposition.  A sharp sheath-knife cuts deeper on a slip than a dull one; but that’s no reason for to hack the edge off over a capstan bar.” 

“All right, if you say so, but when it comes to woman, I guess I’ll take mine with a little less edge.”

“What do you know about it?” Dick demanded.

“Some.”  Tommy reached over for a pair of Molly’s wet stockings and stretched them across his knees to dry.

Dick, eying him querulously, went fishing in her hand satchel, then hitched up to the front of the stove with divers articles of damp clothing spread likewise to the heat.

“Thought you said you never were married?” he asked.

“Did I?  No more was I—that is—yes, by Gawd! I was.  And as good a woman as ever cooked grub for a man.”

“Slipped her moorings?” Dick symbolized infinity with a wave of his hand.

“Ay.”

“Childbirth,” he added, after a moment’s pause.

The beans bubbled rowdily on the front lid, and he pushed the pot back to a cooler surface.  After that he investigated the biscuits, tested them with a splinter of wood, and placed them aside under cover of a damp cloth.  Dick, after the manner of his kind, stifled his interest and waited silently.  “A different woman to Molly.  Siwash.”

Dick nodded his understanding.

“Not so proud and wilful, but stick by a fellow through thick and thin.  Sling a paddle with the next and starve as contentedly as Job.  Go for’ard when the sloop’s nose was more often under than not, and take in sail like a man.  Went prospecting once, up Teslin way, past Surprise Lake and the Little Yellow-Head.  Grub gave out, and we ate the dogs.  Dogs gave out, and we ate harnesses, moccasins, and furs.  Never a whimper; never a pick-me-up-and-carry-me.  Before we went she said look out for grub, but when it happened, never a I-told-you-so.  ‘Never mind, Tommy,’ she’d say, day after day, that weak she could bare lift a snow-shoe and her feet raw with the work.  ‘Never mind.  I’d sooner be flat-bellied of hunger and be your woman, Tommy, than have a potlach every day and be Chief George’s klooch.’  George was chief of the Chilcoots, you know, and wanted her bad.

“Great days, those.  Was a likely chap myself when I struck the coast.  Jumped a whaler, the Pole Star, at Unalaska, and worked my way down to Sitka on an otter hunter.  Picked up with Happy Jack there—know him?”

“Had charge of my traps for me,” Dick answered, “down on the Columbia.  Pretty wild, wasn’t he, with a warm place in his heart for whiskey and women?”

“The very chap.  Went trading with him for a couple of seasons—hooch, and blankets, and such stuff.  Then got a sloop of my own, and not to cut him out, came down Juneau way.  That’s where I met Killisnoo; I called her Tilly for short.  Met her at a squaw dance down on the beach.  Chief George had finished the year’s trade with the Sticks over the Passes, and was down from Dyea with half his tribe.  No end of Siwashes at the dance, and I the only white.  No one knew me, barring a few of the bucks I’d met over Sitka way, but I’d got most of their histories from Happy Jack.

“Everybody talking Chinook, not guessing that I could spit it better than most; and principally two girls who’d run away from Haine’s Mission up the Lynn Canal.  They were trim creatures, good to the eye, and I kind of thought of casting that way; but they were fresh as fresh-caught cod.  Too much edge, you see.  Being a new-comer, they started to twist me, not knowing I gathered in every word of Chinook they uttered.

“I never let on, but set to dancing with Tilly, and the more we danced the more our hearts warmed to each other.  ‘Looking for a woman,’ one of the girls says, and the other tosses her head and answers, ‘Small chance he’ll get one when the women are looking for men.’  And the bucks and squaws standing around began to grin and giggle and repeat what had been said.  ‘Quite a pretty boy,’ says the first one.  I’ll not deny I was rather smooth-faced and youngish, but I’d been a man amongst men many’s the day, and it rankled me.  ‘Dancing with Chief George’s girl,’ pipes the second.  ‘First thing George’ll give him the flat of a paddle and send him about his business.’  Chief George had been looking pretty black up to now, but at this he laughed and slapped his knees.  He was a husky beggar and would have used the paddle too.

“‘Who’s the girls?’ I asked Tilly, as we went ripping down the centre in a reel.  And as soon as she told me their names I remembered all about them from Happy Jack.  Had their pedigree down fine—several things he’d told me that not even their own tribe knew.  But I held my hush, and went on courting Tilly, they a-casting sharp remarks and everybody roaring.  ‘Bide a wee, Tommy,’ I says to myself; ‘bide a wee.’

“And bide I did, till the dance was ripe to break up, and Chief George had brought a paddle all ready for me.  Everybody was on the lookout for mischief when we stopped; but I marched, easy as you please, slap into the thick of them.  The Mission girls cut me up something clever, and for all I was angry I had to set my teeth to keep from laughing.  I turned upon them suddenly.

“‘Are you done?’ I asked.

“You should have seen them when they heard me spitting Chinook.  Then I broke loose.  I told them all about themselves, and their people before them; their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers—everybody, everything.  Each mean trick they’d played; every scrape they’d got into; every shame that’d fallen them.  And I burned them without fear or favor.  All hands crowded round.  Never had they heard a white man sling their lingo as I did.  Everybody was laughing save the Mission girls.  Even Chief George forgot the paddle, or at least he was swallowing too much respect to dare to use it.

“But the girls.  ‘Oh, don’t, Tommy,’ they cried, the tears running down their cheeks.  ‘Please don’t.  We’ll be good.  Sure, Tommy, sure.’  But I knew them well, and I scorched them on every tender spot.  Nor did I slack away till they came down on their knees, begging and pleading with me to keep quiet.  Then I shot a glance at Chief George; but he did not know whether to have at me or not, and passed it off by laughing hollowly.

“So be.  When I passed the parting with Tilly that night I gave her the word that I was going to be around for a week or so, and that I wanted to see more of her.  Not thick-skinned, her kind, when it came to showing like and dislike, and she looked her pleasure for the honest girl she was.  Ay, a striking lass, and I didn’t wonder that Chief George was taken with her.

“Everything my way.  Took the wind from his sails on the first leg.  I was for getting her aboard and sailing down Wrangel way till it blew over, leaving him to whistle; but I wasn’t to get her that easy.  Seems she was living with an uncle of hers—guardian, the way such things go—and seems he was nigh to shuffling off with consumption or some sort of lung trouble.  He was good and bad by turns, and she wouldn’t leave him till it was over with.  Went up to the tepee just before I left, to speculate on how long it’d be; but the old beggar had promised her to Chief George, and when he clapped eyes on me his anger brought on a hemorrhage.

“‘Come and take me, Tommy,’ she says when we bid good-by on the beach.  ‘Ay,’ I answers; ‘when you give the word.’  And I kissed her, white-man-fashion and lover-fashion, till she was all of a tremble like a quaking aspen, and I was so beside myself I’d half a mind to go up and give the uncle a lift over the divide.

“So I went down Wrangel way, past St. Mary’s and even to the Queen Charlottes, trading, running whiskey, turning the sloop to most anything.  Winter was on, stiff and crisp, and I was back to Juneau, when the word came.  ‘Come,’ the beggar says who brought the news.  ‘Killisnoo say, “Come now.”’  ‘What’s the row?’ I asks.  ‘Chief George,’ says he.  ‘Potlach.  Killisnoo, makum klooch.’

“Ay, it was bitter—the Taku howling down out of the north, the salt water freezing quick as it struck the deck, and the old sloop and I hammering into the teeth of it for a hundred miles to Dyea.  Had a Douglass Islander for crew when I started, but midway up he was washed over from the bows.  Jibed all over and crossed the course three times, but never a sign of him.”

“Doubled up with the cold most likely,” Dick suggested, putting a pause into the narrative while he hung one of Molly’s skirts up to dry, “and went down like a pot of lead.”

“My idea.  So I finished the course alone, half-dead when I made Dyea in the dark of the evening.  The tide favored, and I ran the sloop plump to the bank, in the shelter of the river.  Couldn’t go an inch further, for the fresh water was frozen solid.  Halyards and blocks were that iced up I didn’t dare lower mainsail or jib.  First I broached a pint of the cargo raw, and then, leaving all standing, ready for the start, and with a blanket around me, headed across the flat to the camp.  No mistaking, it was a grand layout.  The Chilcats had come in a body—dogs, babies, and canoes—to say nothing of the Dog-Ears, the Little Salmons, and the Missions.  Full half a thousand of them to celebrate Tilly’s wedding, and never a white man in a score of miles.

“Nobody took note of me, the blanket over my head and hiding my face, and I waded knee deep through the dogs and youngsters till I was well up to the front.  The show was being pulled off in a big open place among the trees, with great fires burning and the snow moccasin-packed as hard as Portland cement.  Next me was Tilly, beaded and scarlet-clothed galore, and against her Chief George and his head men.  The shaman was being helped out by the big medicines from the other tribes, and it shivered my spine up and down, the deviltries they cut.  I caught myself wondering if the folks in Liverpool could only see me now; and I thought of yellow-haired Gussie, whose brother I licked after my first voyage, just because he was not for having a sailorman courting his sister.  And with Gussie in my eyes I looked at Tilly.  A rum old world, thinks I, with man a-stepping in trails the mother little dreamed of when he lay at suck.

“So be.  When the noise was loudest, walrus hides booming and priests a-singing, I says, ‘Are you ready?’  Gawd!  Not a start, not a shot of the eyes my way, not the twitch of a muscle.  ‘I knew,’ she answers, slow and steady as a calm spring tide.  ‘Where?’  ‘The high bank at the edge of the ice,’ I whispers back.  ‘Jump out when I give the word.’

“Did I say there was no end of huskies?  Well, there was no end.  Here, there, everywhere, they were scattered about,—tame wolves and nothing less.  When the strain runs thin they breed them in the bush with the wild, and they’re bitter fighters.  Right at the toe of my moccasin lay a big brute, and by the heel another.  I doubled the first one’s tail, quick, till it snapped in my grip.  As his jaws clipped together where my hand should have been, I threw the second one by the scruff straight into his mouth.  ‘Go!’ I cried to Tilly.

“You know how they fight.  In the wink of an eye there was a raging hundred of them, top and bottom, ripping and tearing each other, kids and squaws tumbling which way, and the camp gone wild.  Tilly’d slipped away, so I followed.  But when I looked over my shoulder at the skirt of the crowd, the devil laid me by the heart, and I dropped the blanket and went back.

“By then the dogs’d been knocked apart and the crowd was untangling itself.  Nobody was in proper place, so they didn’t note that Tilly’d gone.  ‘Hello,’ I says, gripping Chief George by the hand.  ‘May your potlach-smoke rise often, and the Sticks bring many furs with the spring.’

“Lord love me, Dick, but he was joyed to see me,—him with the upper hand and wedding Tilly.  Chance to puff big over me.  The tale that I was hot after her had spread through the camps, and my presence did him proud.  All hands knew me, without my blanket, and set to grinning and giggling.  It was rich, but I made it richer by playing unbeknowing.

“‘What’s the row?’ I asks.  ‘Who’s getting married now?’

“‘Chief George,’ the shaman says, ducking his reverence to him.

“‘Thought he had two klooches.’

“‘Him takum more,—three,’ with another duck.

“‘Oh!’  And I turned away as though it didn’t interest me.

“But this wouldn’t do, and everybody begins singing out, ‘Killisnoo!  Killisnoo!’

“‘Killisnoo what?’ I asked.

“‘Killisnoo, klooch, Chief George,’ they blathered.  ‘Killisnoo, klooch.’

“I jumped and looked at Chief George.  He nodded his head and threw out his chest.

“She’ll be no klooch of yours,’ I says solemnly.  ‘No klooch of yours,’ I repeats, while his face went black and his hand began dropping to his hunting-knife.

“‘Look!’ I cries, striking an attitude.  ‘Big Medicine.  You watch my smoke.’

“I pulled off my mittens, rolled back my sleeves, and made half-a-dozen passes in the air.

“‘Killisnoo!’ I shouts.  ‘Killisnoo!  Killisnoo!’

“I was making medicine, and they began to scare.  Every eye was on me; no time to find out that Tilly wasn’t there.  Then I called Killisnoo three times again, and waited; and three times more.  All for mystery and to make them nervous.  Chief George couldn’t guess what I was up to, and wanted to put a stop to the foolery; but the shamans said to wait, and that they’d see me and go me one better, or words to that effect.  Besides, he was a superstitious cuss, and I fancy a bit afraid of the white man’s magic.

“Then I called Killisnoo, long and soft like the howl of a wolf, till the women were all a-tremble and the bucks looking serious.

“‘Look!’ I sprang for’ard, pointing my finger into a bunch of squaws—easier to deceive women than men, you know.  ‘Look!’  And I raised it aloft as though following the flight of a bird.  Up, up, straight overhead, making to follow it with my eyes till it disappeared in the sky.

“‘Killisnoo,’ I said, looking at Chief George and pointing upward again.  ‘Killisnoo.’

“So help me, Dick, the gammon worked.  Half of them, at least, saw Tilly disappear in the air.  They’d drunk my whiskey at Juneau and seen stranger sights, I’ll warrant.  Why should I not do this thing, I, who sold bad spirits corked in bottles?  Some of the women shrieked.  Everybody fell to whispering in bunches.  I folded my arms and held my head high, and they drew further away from me.  The time was ripe to go.  ‘Grab him,’ Chief George cries.  Three or four of them came at me, but I whirled, quick, made a couple of passes like to send them after Tilly, and pointed up.  Touch me?  Not for the kingdoms of the earth.  Chief George harangued them, but he couldn’t get them to lift a leg.  Then he made to take me himself; but I repeated the mummery and his grit went out through his fingers.

“‘Let your shamans work wonders the like of which I have done this night,’ I says.  ‘Let them call Killisnoo down out of the sky whither I have sent her.’  But the priests knew their limits.  ‘May your klooches bear you sons as the spawn of the salmon,’ I says, turning to go; ‘and may your totem pole stand long in the land, and the smoke of your camp rise always.’

“But if the beggars could have seen me hitting the high places for the sloop as soon as I was clear of them, they’d thought my own medicine had got after me.  Tilly’d kept warm by chopping the ice away, and was all ready to cast off.  Gawd! how we ran before it, the Taku howling after us and the freezing seas sweeping over at every clip.  With everything battened down, me a-steering and Tilly chopping ice, we held on half the night, till I plumped the sloop ashore on Porcupine Island, and we shivered it out on the beach; blankets wet, and Tilly drying the matches on her breast.

“So I think I know something about it.  Seven years, Dick, man and wife, in rough sailing and smooth.  And then she died, in the heart of the winter, died in childbirth, up there on the Chilcat Station.  She held my hand to the last, the ice creeping up inside the door and spreading thick on the gut of the window.  Outside, the lone howl of the wolf and the Silence; inside, death and the Silence.  You’ve never heard the Silence yet, Dick, and Gawd grant you don’t ever have to hear it when you sit by the side of death.  Hear it?  Ay, till the breath whistles like a siren, and the heart booms, booms, booms, like the surf on the shore.

“Siwash, Dick, but a woman.  White, Dick, white, clear through.  Towards the last she says, ‘Keep my feather bed, Tommy, keep it always.’  And I agreed.  Then she opened her eyes, full with the pain.  ‘I’ve been a good woman to you, Tommy, and because of that I want you to promise—to promise’—the words seemed to stick in her throat—‘that when you marry, the woman be white.  No more Siwash, Tommy.  I know.  Plenty white women down to Juneau now.  I know.  Your people call you “squaw-man,” your women turn their heads to the one side on the street, and you do not go to their cabins like other men.  Why?  Your wife Siwash.  Is it not so?  And this is not good.  Wherefore I die.  Promise me.  Kiss me in token of your promise.’

“I kissed her, and she dozed off, whispering, ‘It is good.’  At the end, that near gone my ear was at her lips, she roused for the last time.  ‘Remember, Tommy; remember my feather bed.’  Then she died, in childbirth, up there on the Chilcat Station.”

The tent heeled over and half flattened before the gale.  Dick refilled his pipe, while Tommy drew the tea and set it aside against Molly’s return.

And she of the flashing eyes and Yankee blood?  Blinded, falling, crawling on hand and knee, the wind thrust back in her throat by the wind, she was heading for the tent.  On her shoulders a bulky pack caught the full fury of the storm.  She plucked feebly at the knotted flaps, but it was Tommy and Dick who cast them loose.  Then she set her soul for the last effort, staggered in, and fell exhausted on the floor.

Tommy unbuckled the straps and took the pack from her.  As he lifted it there was a clanging of pots and pans.  Dick, pouring out a mug of whiskey, paused long enough to pass the wink across her body.  Tommy winked back.  His lips pursed the monosyllable, “clothes,” but Dick shook his head reprovingly.  “Here, little woman,” he said, after she had drunk the whiskey and straightened up a bit.

“Here’s some dry togs.  Climb into them.  We’re going out to extra-peg the tent.  After that, give us the call, and we’ll come in and have dinner.  Sing out when you’re ready.” 

“So help me, Dick, that’s knocked the edge off her for the rest of this trip,” Tommy spluttered as they crouched to the lee of the tent.

“But it’s the edge is her saving grace.” Dick replied, ducking his head to a volley of sleet that drove around a corner of the canvas.  “The edge that you and I’ve got, Tommy, and the edge of our mothers before us.”

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4. DIABLE – A DOG 

Diable was a devil.  This was recognized throughout the Northland.  “Hell’s Spawn” he was called by many men, but his master, Black Leclère, chose for him the shameful name “Diable.”  Now Black Leclère was also a devil, and the twain were well matched.  There is a saying that when two devils come together, hell is to pay.  This is to be expected, and this certainly was to be expected when Diable and Black Leclère came together.  The first time they met, Diable was a part-grown puppy, lean and hungry, with bitter eyes; and they met with snap and snarl, and wicked looks, for Leclère’s upper lip had a wolfish way of lifting and showing the white, cruel teeth.  And it lifted then, and his eyes glinted viciously, as he reached for Diable and dragged him out from the squirming litter.  It was certain that they divined each other, for on the instant Diable had buried his puppy fangs in Leclère’s hand, and Leclère, thumb and finger, was coolly choking his young life out of him.

“Sacrédam,” the Frenchman said softly, flirting the quick blood from his bitten hand and gazing down on the little puppy choking and gasping in the snow.

Leclère turned to John Hamlin, storekeeper of the Sixty Mile Post.  “Dat fo’ w’at Ah lak heem.  ‘Ow moch, eh, you, M’sieu’?  ‘Ow moch?  Ah buy heem, now; Ah buy heem queek.”

And because he hated him with an exceeding bitter hate, Leclère bought Diable and gave him his shameful name.  And for five years the twain adventured across the Northland, from St. Michael’s and the Yukon delta to the head-reaches of the Pelly and even so far as the Peace River, Athabasca, and the Great Slave.  And they acquired a reputation for uncompromising wickedness, the like of which never before attached itself to man and dog.

Diable did not know his father—hence his name—but, as John Hamlin knew, his father was a great grey timber wolf.  But the mother of Diable, as he dimly remembered her, was snarling, bickering, obscene, husky, full-fronted and heavy-chested, with a malign eye, a cat-like grip on life, and a genius for trickery and evil.  There was neither faith nor trust in her.  Her treachery alone could be relied upon, and her wild-wood amours attested her general depravity.  Much of evil and much of strength were there in these, Diable’s progenitors, and, bone and flesh of their bone and flesh, he had inherited it all.  And then came Black Leclère, to lay his heavy hand on the bit of pulsating puppy life, to press and prod and mould till it became a big bristling beast, acute in knavery, overspilling with hate, sinister, malignant, diabolical.  With a proper master Diable might have made an ordinary, fairly efficient sled-dog.  He never got the chance: Leclère but confirmed him in his congenital iniquity.

The history of Diable and Leclère is a history of war—of five cruel, relentless years, of which their first meeting is fit summary.  To begin with, it was Leclère’s fault, for he hated with understanding and intelligence, while the long-legged, ungainly puppy hated only blindly, instinctively, without reason or method.  At first there were no refinements of cruelty (these were to come later), but simple beatings and crude brutalities.  In one of these Diable had an ear injured.  He never regained control of the riven muscles, and ever after the ear drooped limply down to keep keen the memory of his tormentor.  And he never forgot.

His puppyhood was a period of foolish rebellion.  He was always worsted, but he fought back because it was his nature to fight back.  And he was unconquerable.  Yelping shrilly from the pain of lash and club, he none the less contrived always to throw in the defiant snarl, the bitter vindictive menace of his soul which fetched without fail more blows and beatings.  But his was his mother’s tenacious grip on life.  Nothing could kill him.  He flourished under misfortune, grew fat with famine, and out of his terrible struggle for life developed a preternatural intelligence.  His were the stealth and cunning of the husky, his mother, and the fierceness and valour of the wolf, his father.

Possibly it was because of his father that he never wailed.  His puppy yelps passed with his lanky legs, so that he became grim and taciturn, quick to strike, slow to warn.  He answered curse with snarl, and blow with snap, grinning the while his implacable hatred; but never again, under the extremest agony, did Leclère bring from him the cry of fear nor of pain.  This unconquerableness but fanned Leclère’s wrath and stirred him to greater deviltries.

Did Leclère give Diable half a fish and to his mates whole ones, Diable went forth to rob other dogs of their fish.  Also he robbed caches and expressed himself in a thousand rogueries, till he became a terror to all dogs and masters of dogs.  Did Leclère beat Diable and fondle Babette—Babette who was not half the worker he was—why, Diable threw her down in the snow and broke her hind leg in his heavy jaws, so that Leclère was forced to shoot her.  Likewise, in bloody battles, Diable mastered all his team-mates, set them the law of trail and forage, and made them live to the law he set.

In five years he heard but one kind word, received but one soft stroke of a hand, and then he did not know what manner of things they were.  He leaped like the untamed thing he was, and his jaws were together in a flash.  It was the missionary at Sunrise, a newcomer in the country, who spoke the kind word and gave the soft stroke of the hand.  And for six months after, he wrote no letters home to the States, and the surgeon at McQuestion travelled two hundred miles on the ice to save him from blood-poisoning. 

Men and dogs looked askance at Diable when he drifted into their camps and posts.  The men greeted him with feet threateningly lifted for the kick, the dogs with bristling manes and bared fangs.  Once a man did kick Diable, and Diable, with quick wolf snap, closed his jaws like a steel trap on the man’s calf and crunched down to the bone.  Whereat the man was determined to have his life, only Black Leclère, with ominous eyes and naked hunting-knife, stepped in between.  The killing of Diable—ah, sacrédam, that was a pleasure Leclère reserved for himself.  Some day it would happen, or else—bah! who was to know?  Anyway, the problem would be solved.

For they had become problems to each other.  The very breath each drew was a challenge and a menace to the other.  Their hate bound them together as love could never bind.  Leclère was bent on the coming of the day when Diable should wilt in spirit and cringe and whimper at his feet.  And Diable—Leclère knew what was in Diable’s mind, and more than once had read it in Diable’s eyes.  And so clearly had he read, that when Diable was at his back, he made it a point to glance often over his shoulder.

Men marvelled when Leclère refused large money for the dog.  “Some day you’ll kill him and be out his price,” said John Hamlin once, when Diable lay panting in the snow where Leclère had kicked him, and no one knew whether his ribs were broken, and no one dared look to see.

“Dat,” said Leclère, dryly, “dat is my biz’ness, M’sieu’.”

And the men marvelled that Diable did not run away.  They did not understand.  But Leclère understood.  He was a man who lived much in the open, beyond the sound of human tongue, and he had learned the voices of wind and storm, the sigh of night, the whisper of dawn, the clash of day.  In a dim way he could hear the green things growing, the running of the sap, the bursting of the bud.  And he knew the subtle speech of the things that moved, of the rabbit in the snare, the moody raven beating the air with hollow wing, the baldface shuffling under the moon, the wolf like a grey shadow gliding betwixt the twilight and the dark.  And to him Diable spoke clear and direct.  Full well he understood why Diable did not run away, and he looked more often over his shoulder.

When in anger, Diable was not nice to look upon, and more than once had he leapt for Leclère’s throat, to be stretched quivering and senseless in the snow, by the butt of the ever ready dogwhip.  And so Diable learned to bide his time.  When he reached his full strength and prime of youth, he thought the time had come.  He was broad-chested, powerfully muscled, of far more than ordinary size, and his neck from head to shoulders was a mass of bristling hair—to all appearances a full-blooded wolf.  Leclère was lying asleep in his furs when Diable deemed the time to be ripe.  He crept upon him stealthily, head low to earth and lone ear laid back, with a feline softness of tread.  Diable breathed gently, very gently, and not till he was close at hand did he raise his head.  He paused for a moment and looked at the bronzed bull throat, naked and knotty, and swelling to a deep steady pulse.  The slaver dripped down his fangs and slid off his tongue at the sight, and in that moment he remembered his drooping ear, his uncounted blows and prodigious wrongs, and without a sound sprang on the sleeping man.

Leclère awoke to the pang of the fangs in his throat, and, perfect animal that he was, he awoke clear-headed and with full comprehension.  He closed on Diable’s windpipe with both his hands, and rolled out of his furs to get his weight uppermost.  But the thousands of Diable’s ancestors had clung at the throats of unnumbered moose and caribou and dragged them down, and the wisdom of those ancestors was his.  When Leclère’s weight came on top of him, he drove his hind legs upwards and in, and clawed down chest and abdomen, ripping and tearing through skin and muscle.  And when he felt the man’s body wince above him and lift, he worried and shook at the man’s throat.  His team-mates closed around in a snarling circle, and Diable, with failing breath and fading sense, knew that their jaws were hungry for him.  But that did not matter—it was the man, the man above him, and he ripped and clawed, and shook and worried, to the last ounce of his strength.  But Leclère choked him with both his hands, till Diable’s chest heaved and writhed for the air denied, and his eyes glazed and set, and his jaws slowly loosened, and his tongue protruded black and swollen.

“Eh?  Bon, you devil!” Leclère gurgled mouth and throat clogged with his own blood, as he shoved the dizzy dog from him.

And then Leclère cursed the other dogs off as they fell upon Diable.  They drew back into a wider circle, squatting alertly on their haunches and licking their chops, the hair on every neck bristling and erect.

Diable recovered quickly, and at sound of Leclère’s voice, tottered to his feet and swayed weakly back and forth.

“A-h-ah!  You beeg devil!” Leclère spluttered.  “Ah fix you; Ah fix you plentee, by Gar!”

Diable, the air biting into his exhausted lungs like wine, flashed full into the man’s face, his jaws missing and coming together with a metallic clip.  They rolled over and over on the snow, Leclère striking madly with his fists.  Then they separated, face to face, and circled back and forth before each other.  Leclère could have drawn his knife.  His rifle was at his feet.  But the beast in him was up and raging.  He would do the thing with his hands—and his teeth.  Diable sprang in, but Leclère knocked him over with a blow of the fist, fell upon him, and buried his teeth to the bone in the dog’s shoulder.

It was a primordial setting and a primordial scene, such as might have been in the savage youth of the world.  An open space in a dark forest, a ring of grinning wolf-dogs, and in the centre two beasts, locked in combat, snapping and snarling raging madly about panting, sobbing, cursing, straining, wild with passion, in a fury of murder, ripping and tearing and clawing in elemental brutishness.

But Leclère caught Diable behind the ear with a blow from his fist, knocking him over, and, for the instant, stunning him.  Then Leclère leaped upon him with his feet, and sprang up and down, striving to grind him into the earth.  Both Diable’s hind legs were broken ere Leclère ceased that he might catch breath.

“A-a-ah!  A-a-ah!” he screamed, incapable of speech, shaking his fist, through sheer impotence of throat and larynx.

But Diable was indomitable.  He lay there in a helpless welter, his lip feebly lifting and writhing to the snarl he had not the strength to utter.  Leclère kicked him, and the tired jaws closed on the ankle, but could not break the skin.

Then Leclère picked up the whip and proceeded almost to cut him to pieces, at each stroke of the lash crying: “Dis taim Ah break you!  Eh?  By Gar!  Ah break you!”

In the end, exhausted, fainting from loss of blood, he crumpled up and fell by his victim, and when the wolf-dogs closed in to take their vengeance, with his last consciousness dragged his body on top of Diable to shield him from their fangs.

This occurred not far from Sunrise, and the missionary, opening the door to Leclère a few hours later, was surprised to note the absence of Diable from the team.  Nor did his surprise lessen when Leclère threw back the robes from the sled, gathered Diable into his arms and staggered across the threshold.  It happened that the surgeon of McQuestion, who was something of a gadabout, was up on a gossip, and between them they proceeded to repair Leclère,

“Merci, non,” said he.  “Do you fix firs’ de dog.  To die?  Non.  Eet is not good.  Becos’ heem Ah mus’ yet break.  Dat fo’ w’at he mus’ not die.”

The surgeon called it a marvel, the missionary a miracle, that Leclère pulled through at all; and so weakened was he, that in the spring the fever got him, and he went on his back again.  Diable had been in even worse plight, but his grip on life prevailed, and the bones of his hind legs knit, and his organs righted themselves, during the several weeks he lay strapped to the floor.  And by the time Leclère, finally convalescent, sallow and shaky, took the sun by the cabin door, Diable had reasserted his supremacy among his kind, and brought not only his own team-mates but the missionary’s dogs into subjection.

He moved never a muscle, nor twitched a hair, when, for the first time, Leclère tottered out on the missionary’s arm, and sank down slowly and with infinite caution on the three-legged stool.

“Bon!” he said.  “Bon!  De good sun!”  And he stretched out his wasted hands and washed them in the warmth.

Then his gaze fell on the dog, and the old light blazed back in his eyes.  He touched the missionary lightly on the arm.  “Mon père, dat is one beeg devil, dat Diable.  You will bring me one pistol, so, dat Ah drink de sun in peace.”

And thenceforth for many days he sat in the sun before the cabin door.  He never dozed, and the pistol lay always across his knees.  Diable had a way, the first thing each day, of looking for the weapon in its wonted place.  At sight of it he would lift his lip faintly in token that he understood, and Leclère would lift his own lip in an answering grin.  One day the missionary took note of the trick.

“Bless me!” he said.  “I really believe the brute comprehends.”

Leclère laughed softly.  “Look you, mon père.  Dat w’at Ah now spik, to dat does he lissen.”

As if in confirmation, Diable just perceptibly wriggled his lone ear up to catch the sound.

“Ah say ‘keel’.”

Diable growled deep down in his throat, the hair bristled along his neck, and every muscle went tense and expectant.

“Ah lift de gun, so, like dat.”  And suiting action to word, he sighted the pistol at Diable.  Diable, with a single leap, sideways, landed around the corner of the cabin out of sight.

“Bless me!” he repeated at intervals.  Leclère grinned proudly.

“But why does he not run away?”

The Frenchman’s shoulders went up in the racial shrug that means all things from total ignorance to infinite understanding.

“Then why do you not kill him?”

Again the shoulders went up.

“Mon père,” he said after a pause, “de taim is not yet.  He is one beeg devil.  Some taim Ah break heem, so an’ so, all to leetle bits.  Hey? some taim.  Bon!”

A day came when Leclère gathered his dogs together and floated down in a bateau to Forty Mile, and on to the Porcupine, where he took a commission from the P. C. Company, and went exploring for the better part of a year.  After that he poled up the Koyokuk to deserted Arctic City, and later came drifting back, from camp to camp, along the Yukon.  And during the long months Diable was well lessoned.  He learned many tortures, and, notably, the torture of hunger, the torture of thirst, the torture of fire, and, worst of all, the torture of music.

Like the rest of his kind, he did not enjoy music.  It gave him exquisite anguish, racking him nerve by nerve, and ripping apart every fibre of his being.  It made him howl, long and wolf-life, as when the wolves bay the stars on frosty nights.  He could not help howling.  It was his one weakness in the contest with Leclère, and it was his shame.  Leclère, on the other hand, passionately loved music—as passionately as he loved strong drink.  And when his soul clamoured for expression, it usually uttered itself in one or the other of the two ways, and more usually in both ways.  And when he had drunk, his brain a-lilt with unsung song and the devil in him aroused and rampant, his soul found its supreme utterance in torturing Diable.

“Now we will haf a leetle museek,” he would say.  “Eh?  W’at you t’ink, Diable?”

It was only an old and battered harmonica, tenderly treasured and patiently repaired; but it was the best that money could buy, and out of its silver reeds he drew weird vagrant airs that men had never heard before.  Then Diable, dumb of throat, with teeth tight clenched, would back away, inch by inch, to the farthest cabin corner.  And Leclère, playing, playing, a stout club tucked under his arm, followed the animal up, inch by inch, step by step, till there was no further retreat.

At first Diable would crowd himself into the smallest possible space, grovelling close to the floor; but as the music came nearer and nearer, he was forced to uprear, his back jammed into the logs, his fore legs fanning the air as though to beat off the rippling waves of sound.  He still kept his teeth together, but severe muscular contractions attacked his body, strange twitchings and jerkings, till he was all a-quiver and writhing in silent torment.  As he lost control, his jaws spasmodically wrenched apart, and deep throaty vibrations issued forth, too low in the register of sound for human ear to catch.  And then, nostrils distended, eyes dilated, hair bristling in helpless rage, arose the long wolf howl.  It came with a slurring rush upwards, swelling to a great heart-breaking burst of sound, and dying away in sadly cadenced woe—then the next rush upward, octave upon octave; the bursting heart; and the infinite sorrow and misery, fainting, fading, falling, and dying slowly away. 

It was fit for hell.  And Leclère, with fiendish ken, seemed to divine each particular nerve and heartstring, and with long wails and tremblings and sobbing minors to make it yield up its last shred of grief.  It was frightful, and for twenty-four hours after, Diable was nervous and unstrung, starting at common sounds, tripping over his own shadow, but, withal, vicious and masterful with his team-mates.  Nor did he show signs of a breaking spirit.  Rather did he grow more grim and taciturn, biding his time with an inscrutable patience that began to puzzle and weigh upon Leclère.  The dog would lie in the firelight, motionless, for hours, gazing straight before him at Leclère, and hating him with his bitter eyes.

Often the man felt that he had bucked against the very essence of life—the unconquerable essence that swept the hawk down out of the sky like a feathered thunderbolt, that drove the great grey goose across the zones, that hurled the spawning salmon through two thousand miles of boiling Yukon flood.  At such times he felt impelled to—express his own unconquerable essence; and with strong drink, wild music, and Diable, he indulged in vast orgies, wherein he pitted his puny strength in the face of things, and challenged all that was, and had been, and was yet to be.

“Dere is somet’ing dere,” he affirmed, when the rhythmed vagaries of his mind touched the secret chords of Diable’s being and brought forth the long lugubrious howl.  “Ah pool eet out wid bot’ my han’s, so, an’ so.  Ha! ha!  Eet is fonee!  Eet is ver’ fonee!  De priest chant, de womans pray, de mans swear, de leetle bird go peep-peep, Diable, heem go yow-yow—an’ eet is all de ver’ same t’ing.  Ha! ha!”

Father Gautier, a worthy priest, one reproved him with instances of concrete perdition.  He never reproved him again.

“Eet may be so, mon père,” he made answer.  “An’ Ah t’ink Ah go troo hell a-snappin’, lak de hemlock troo de fire.  Eh, mon père?”

But all bad things come to an end as well as good, and so with Black Leclère.  On the summer low water, in a poling boat, he left McDougall for Sunrise.  He left McDougall in company with Timothy Brown, and arrived at Sunrise by himself.  Further, it was known that they had quarrelled just previous to pulling out; for the Lizzie, a wheezy ten-ton stern-wheeler, twenty-four hours behind, beat Leclère in by three days.  And when he did get in, it was with a clean-drilled bullet-hole through his shoulder muscle, and a tale of ambush and murder.

A strike had been made at Sunrise, and things had changed considerably.  With the infusion of several hundred gold-seekers, a deal of whisky, and half-a-dozen equipped gamblers, the missionary had seen the page of his years of labour with the Indians wiped clean.  When the squaws became preoccupied with cooking beans and keeping the fire going for the wifeless miners, and the bucks with swapping their warm furs for black bottles and broken time-pieces, he took to his bed, said “Bless me” several times, and departed to his final accounting in a rough-hewn, oblong box.  Whereupon the gamblers moved their roulette and faro tables into the mission house, and the click of chips and clink of glasses went up from dawn till dark and to dawn again.

Now Timothy Brown was well beloved among these adventurers of the North.  The one thing against him was his quick temper and ready fist—a little thing, for which his kind heart and forgiving hand more than atoned.  On the other hand, there was nothing to atone for Black Leclère.  He was “black,” as more than one remembered deed bore witness, while he was as well hated as the other was beloved.  So the men of Sunrise put an antiseptic dressing on his shoulder and haled him before Judge Lynch.

It was a simple affair.  He had quarrelled with Timothy Brown at McDougall.  With Timothy Brown he had left McDougall.  Without Timothy Brown he had arrived at Sunrise.  Considered in the light of his evilness, the unanimous conclusion was that he had killed Timothy Brown.  On the other hand, Leclère acknowledged their facts, but challenged their conclusion, and gave his own explanation.  Twenty miles out of Sunrise he and Timothy Brown were poling the boat along the rocky shore.  From that shore two rifle-shots rang out.  Timothy Brown pitched out of the boat and went down bubbling red, and that was the last of Timothy Brown.  He, Leclère, pitched into the bottom of the boat with a stinging shoulder.  He lay very quiet, peeping at the shore.  After a time two Indians stuck up their heads and came out to the water’s edge, carrying between them a birch-bark canoe.  As they launched it, Leclère let fly.  He potted one, who went over the side after the manner of Timothy Brown.  The other dropped into the bottom of the canoe, and then canoe and poling boat went down the stream in a drifting battle.  After that they hung up on a split current, and the canoe passed on one side of an island, the poling boat on the other.  That was the last of the canoe, and he came on into Sunrise.  Yes, from the way the Indian in the canoe jumped, he was sure he had potted him.  That was all.  This explanation was not deemed adequate.  They gave him ten hours’ grace while the Lizzie steamed down to investigate.  Ten hours later she came wheezing back to Sunrise.  There had been nothing to investigate.  No evidence had been found to back up his statements.  They told him to make his will, for he possessed a fifty-thousand dollar Sunrise claim, and they were a law-abiding as well as a law-giving breed.

Leclère shrugged his shoulders.  “Bot one t’ing,” he said; “a leetle, w’at you call, favour—a leetle favour, dat is eet.  I gif my feefty t’ousan’ dollair to de church.  I gif my husky dog, Diable, to de devil.  De leetle favour?  Firs’ you hang heem, an’ den you hang me.  Eet is good, eh?”

Good it was, they agreed, that Hell’s Spawn should break trail for his master across the last divide, and the court was adjourned down to the river bank, where a big spruce tree stood by itself.  Slackwater Charley put a hangman’s knot in the end of a hauling-line, and the noose was slipped over Leclère’s head and pulled tight around his neck.  His hands were tied behind his back, and he was assisted to the top of a cracker box.  Then the running end of the line was passed over an over-hanging branch, drawn taut, and made fast.  To kick the box out from under would leave him dancing on the air. 

“Now for the dog,” said Webster Shaw, sometime mining engineer.  “You’ll have to rope him, Slackwater.”

Leclère grinned.  Slackwater took a chew of tobacco, rove a running noose, and proceeded leisurely to coil a few turns in his hand.  He paused once or twice to brush particularly offensive mosquitoes from off his face.  Everybody was brushing mosquitoes, except Leclère, about whose head a small cloud was visible.  Even Diable, lying full-stretched on the ground with his fore paws rubbed the pests away from eyes and mouth.

But while Slackwater waited for Diable to lift his head, a faint call came from the quiet air, and a man was seen waving his arms and running across the flat from Sunrise.  It was the storekeeper.

“C-call ’er off, boys,” he panted, as he came in among them.

“Little Sandy and Bernadotte’s jes’ got in,” he explained with returning breath.  “Landed down below an’ come up by the short cut.  Got the Beaver with ’m.  Picked ’m up in his canoe, stuck in a back channel, with a couple of bullet-holes in ’m.  Other buck was Klok Kutz, the one that knocked spots out of his squaw and dusted.”

“Eh?  W’at Ah say?  Eh?” Leclère cried exultantly.  “Dat de one fo’ sure!  Ah know.  Ah spik true.”

“The thing to do is to teach these damned Siwashes a little manners,” spoke Webster Shaw.  “They’re getting fat and sassy, and we’ll have to bring them down a peg.  Round in all the bucks and string up the Beaver for an object lesson.  That’s the programme.  Come on and let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.”

“Heh, M’sieu!” Leclère called, as the crowd began to melt away through the twilight in the direction of Sunrise.  “Ah lak ver’ moch to see de fon.”

“Oh, we’ll turn you loose when we come back,” Webster Shaw shouted over his shoulder.  “In the meantime meditate on your sins and the ways of Providence.  It will do you good, so be grateful.”

As is the way with men who are accustomed to great hazards, whose nerves are healthy and trained in patience, so it was with Leclère who settled himself to the long wait—which is to say that he reconciled his mind to it.  There was no settling of the body, for the taut rope forced him to stand rigidly erect.  The least relaxation of the leg muscles pressed the rough-fibred noose into his neck, while the upright position caused him much pain in his wounded shoulder.  He projected his under lip and expelled his breath upwards along his face to blow the mosquitoes away from his eyes.  But the situation had its compensation.  To be snatched from the maw of death was well worth a little bodily suffering, only it was unfortunate that he should miss the hanging of the Beaver.

And so he mused, till his eyes chanced to fall upon Diable, head between fore paws and stretched on the ground asleep.  And their Leclère ceased to muse.  He studied the animal closely, striving to sense if the sleep were real or feigned.  Diable’s sides were heaving regularly, but Leclère felt that the breath came and went a shade too quickly; also he felt that there was a vigilance or alertness to every hair that belied unshackling sleep.  He would have given his Sunrise claim to be assured that the dog was not awake, and once, when one of his joints cracked, he looked quickly and guiltily at Diable to see if he roused.  He did not rouse then but a few minutes later he got up slowly and lazily, stretched, and looked carefully about him.

“Sacrédam,” said Leclère under his breath.

Assured that no one was in sight or hearing, Diable sat down, curled his upper lip almost into a smile, looked up at Leclère, and licked his chops.

“Ah see my feenish,” the man said, and laughed sardonically aloud.

Diable came nearer, the useless ear wabbling, the good ear cocked forward with devilish comprehension.  He thrust his head on one side quizzically, and advanced with mincing, playful steps.  He rubbed his body gently against the box till it shook and shook again.  Leclère teetered carefully to maintain his equilibrium.

“Diable,” he said calmly, “look out.  Ah keel you.”

Diable snarled at the word and shook the box with greater force.  Then he upreared, and with his fore paws threw his weight against it higher up.  Leclère kicked out with one foot, but the rope bit into his neck and checked so abruptly as nearly to overbalance him.

“Hi, ya!  Chook!  Mush-on!” he screamed.

Diable retreated, for twenty feet or so, with a fiendish levity in his bearing that Leclère could not mistake.  He remembered the dog often breaking the scum of ice on the water hole by lifting up and throwing his weight upon it; and remembering, he understood what he now had in mind.  Diable faced about and paused.  He showed his white teeth in a grin, which Leclère answered; and then hurled his body through the air, in full charge, straight for the box.

Fifteen minutes later, Slackwater Charley and Webster Shaw returning, caught a glimpse of a ghostly pendulum swinging back and forth in the dim light.  As they hurriedly drew in closer, they made out the man’s inert body, and a live thing that clung to it, and shook and worried, and gave to it the swaying motion.

“Hi, ya!  Chook! you Spawn of Hell!” yelled Webster Shaw.

But Diable glared at him, and snarled threateningly, without loosing his jaws.

Slackwater Charley got out his revolver, but his hand was shaking, as with a chill, and he fumbled.

“Here you take it,” he said, passing the weapon over.

Webster Shaw laughed shortly, drew a sight between the gleaming eyes, and pressed the trigger.  Diable’s body twitched with the shock, threshed the ground spasmodically for a moment, and went suddenly limp.  But his teeth still held fast locked.

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5. THE STORY OF JEES UCK 

There have been renunciations and renunciations.  But, in its essence, renunciation is ever the same.  And the paradox of it is, that men and women forego the dearest thing in the world for something dearer.  It was never otherwise.  Thus it was when Abel brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof.  The firstlings and the fat thereof were to him the dearest things in the world; yet he gave them over that he might be on good terms with God.  So it was with Abraham when he prepared to offer up his son Isaac on a stone.  Isaac was very dear to him; but God, in incomprehensible ways, was yet dearer.  It may be that Abraham feared the Lord.  But whether that be true or not it has since been determined by a few billion people that he loved the Lord and desired to serve him.

And since it has been determined that love is service, and since to renounce is to serve, then Jees Uck, who was merely a woman of a swart-skinned breed, loved with a great love.  She was unversed in history, having learned to read only the signs of weather and of game; so she had never heard of Abel nor of Abraham; nor, having escaped the good sisters at Holy Cross, had she been told the story of Ruth, the Moabitess, who renounced her very God for the sake of a stranger woman from a strange land.  Jees Uck had learned only one way of renouncing, and that was with a club as the dynamic factor, in much the same manner as a dog is made to renounce a stolen marrow-bone.  Yet, when the time came, she proved herself capable of rising to the height of the fair-faced royal races and of renouncing in right regal fashion.

So this is the story of Jees Uck, which is also the story of Neil Bonner, and Kitty Bonner, and a couple of Neil Bonner’s progeny.  Jees Uck was of a swart-skinned breed, it is true, but she was not an Indian; nor was she an Eskimo; nor even an Innuit.  Going backward into mouth tradition, there appears the figure of one Skolkz, a Toyaat Indian of the Yukon, who journeyed down in his youth to the Great Delta where dwell the Innuits, and where he foregathered with a woman remembered as Olillie.  Now the woman Olillie had been bred from an Eskimo mother by an Innuit man.  And from Skolkz and Olillie came Halie, who was one-half Toyaat Indian, one-quarter Innuit, and one-quarter Eskimo.  And Halie was the grandmother of Jees Uck.

Now Halie, in whom three stocks had been bastardized, who cherished no prejudice against further admixture, mated with a Russian fur trader called Shpack, also known in his time as the Big Fat.  Shpack is herein classed Russian for lack of a more adequate term; for Shpack’s father, a Slavonic convict from the Lower Provinces, had escaped from the quicksilver mines into Northern Siberia, where he knew Zimba, who was a woman of the Deer People and who became the mother of Shpack, who became the grandfather of Jees Uck.

Now had not Shpack been captured in his boyhood by the Sea People, who fringe the rim of the Arctic Sea with their misery, he would not have become the grandfather of Jees Uck and there would be no story at all.  But he was captured by the Sea People, from whom he escaped to Kamchatka, and thence, on a Norwegian whale-ship, to the Baltic.  Not long after that he turned up in St. Petersburg, and the years were not many till he went drifting east over the same weary road his father had measured with blood and groans a half-century before.  But Shpack was a free man, in the employ of the great Russian Fur Company.  And in that employ he fared farther and farther east, until he crossed Bering Sea into Russian America; and at Pastolik, which is hard by the Great Delta of the Yukon, became the husband of Halie, who was the grandmother of Jees Uck.  Out of this union came the woman-child, Tukesan.

Shpack, under the orders of the Company, made a canoe voyage of a few hundred miles up the Yukon to the post of Nulato.  With him he took Halie and the babe Tukesan.  This was in 1850, and in 1850 it was that the river Indians fell upon Nulato and wiped it from the face of the earth.  And that was the end of Shpack and Halie.  On that terrible night Tukesan disappeared.  To this day the Toyaats aver they had no hand in the trouble; but, be that as it may, the fact remains that the babe Tukesan grew up among them.

Tukesan was married successively to two Toyaat brothers, to both of whom she was barren.  Because of this, other women shook their heads, and no third Toyaat man could be found to dare matrimony with the childless widow.  But at this time, many hundred miles above, at Fort Yukon, was a man, Spike O’Brien.  Fort Yukon was a Hudson Bay Company post, and Spike O’Brien one of the Company’s servants.  He was a good servant, but he achieved an opinion that the service was bad, and in the course of time vindicated that opinion by deserting.  It was a year’s journey, by the chain of posts, back to York Factory on Hudson’s Bay.  Further, being Company posts, he knew he could not evade the Company’s clutches.  Nothing retained but to go down the Yukon.  It was true no white man had ever gone down the Yukon, and no white man knew whether the Yukon emptied into the Arctic Ocean or Bering Sea; but Spike O’Brien was a Celt, and the promise of danger was a lure he had ever followed.

A few weeks later, somewhat battered, rather famished, and about dead with river-fever, he drove the nose of his canoe into the earth bank by the village of the Toyaats and promptly fainted away.  While getting his strength back, in the weeks that followed, he looked upon Tukesan and found her good.  Like the father of Shpack, who lived to a ripe old age among the Siberian Deer People, Spike O’Brien might have left his aged bones with the Toyaats.  But romance gripped his heart-strings and would not let him stay.  As he had journeyed from York Factory to Fort Yukon, so, first among men, might he journey from Fort Yukon to the sea and win the honour of being the first man to make the North-West Passage by land.  So he departed down the river, won the honour, and was unannaled and unsung.  In after years he ran a sailors’ boarding-house in San Francisco, where he became esteemed a most remarkable liar by virtue of the gospel truths he told.  But a child was born to Tukesan, who had been childless.  And this child was Jees Uck.  Her lineage has been traced at length to show that she was neither Indian, nor Eskimo, nor Innuit, nor much of anything else; also to show what waifs of the generations we are, all of us, and the strange meanderings of the seed from which we spring. 

What with the vagrant blood in her and the heritage compounded of many races, Jees Uck developed a wonderful young beauty.  Bizarre, perhaps, it was, and Oriental enough to puzzle any passing ethnologist.  A lithe and slender grace characterized her.  Beyond a quickened lilt to the imagination, the contribution of the Celt was in no wise apparent.  It might possibly have put the warm blood under her skin, which made her face less swart and her body fairer; but that, in turn, might have come from Shpack, the Big Fat, who inherited the colour of his Slavonic father.  And, finally, she had great, blazing black eyes—the half-caste eye, round, full-orbed, and sensuous, which marks the collision of the dark races with the light.  Also, the white blood in her, combined with her knowledge that it was in her, made her, in a way, ambitious.  Otherwise by upbringing and in outlook on life, she was wholly and utterly a Toyaat Indian.

One winter, when she was a young woman, Neil Bonner came into her life.  But he came into her life, as he had come into the country, somewhat reluctantly.  In fact, it was very much against his will, coming into the country.  Between a father who clipped coupons and cultivated roses, and a mother who loved the social round, Neil Bonner had gone rather wild.  He was not vicious, but a man with meat in his belly and without work in the world has to expend his energy somehow, and Neil Bonner was such a man.  And he expended his energy in such a fashion and to such extent that when the inevitable climax came, his father, Neil Bonner, senior, crawled out of his roses in a panic and looked on his son with a wondering eye.  Then he hied himself away to a crony of kindred pursuits, with whom he was wont to confer over coupons and roses, and between the two the destiny of young Neil Bonner was made manifest.  He must go away, on probation, to live down his harmless follies in order that he might live up to their own excellent standard.

This determined upon, and young Neil a little repentant and a great deal ashamed, the rest was easy.  The cronies were heavy stockholders in the P. C. Company.  The P. C. Company owned fleets of river-steamers and ocean-going craft, and, in addition to farming the sea, exploited a hundred thousand square miles or so of the land that, on the maps of geographers, usually occupies the white spaces.  So the P. C. Company sent young Neil Bonner north, where the white spaces are, to do its work and to learn to be good like his father.  “Five years of simplicity, close to the soil and far from temptation, will make a man of him,” said old Neil Bonner, and forthwith crawled back among his roses.  Young Neil set his jaw, pitched his chin at the proper angle, and went to work.  As an underling he did his work well and gained the commendation of his superiors.  Not that he delighted in the work, but that it was the one thing that prevented him from going mad.

The first year he wished he was dead.  The second year he cursed God.  The third year he was divided between the two emotions, and in the confusion quarrelled with a man in authority.  He had the best of the quarrel, though the man in authority had the last word,—a word that sent Neil Bonner into an exile that made his old billet appear as paradise.  But he went without a whimper, for the North had succeeded in making him into a man.

Here and there, on the white spaces on the map, little circlets like the letter “o” are to be found, and, appended to these circlets, on one side or the other, are names such as “Fort Hamilton,” “Yanana Station,” “Twenty Mile,” thus leading one to imagine that the white spaces are plentifully besprinkled with towns and villages.  But it is a vain imagining.  Twenty Mile, which is very like the rest of the posts, is a log building the size of a corner grocery with rooms to let up-stairs.  A long-legged cache on stilts may be found in the back yard; also a couple of outhouses.  The back yard is unfenced, and extends to the sky-line and an unascertainable bit beyond.  There are no other houses in sight, though the Toyaats sometimes pitch a winter camp a mile or two down the Yukon.  And this is Twenty Mile, one tentacle of the many-tentacled P. C. Company.  Here the agent, with an assistant, barters with the Indians for their furs, and does an erratic trade on a gold-dust basis with the wandering miners.  Here, also, the agent and his assistant yearn all winter for the spring, and when the spring comes, camp blasphemously on the roof while the Yukon washes out the establishment.  And here, also, in the fourth year of his sojourn in the land, came Neil Bonner to take charge.

He had displaced no agent; for the man that previously ran the post had made away with himself; “because of the rigours of the place,” said the assistant, who still remained; though the Toyaats, by their fires, had another version.  The assistant was a shrunken-shouldered, hollow-chested man, with a cadaverous face and cavernous cheeks that his sparse black beard could not hide.  He coughed much, as though consumption gripped his lungs, while his eyes had that mad, fevered light common to consumptives in the last stage.  Pentley was his name—Amos Pentley—and Bonner did not like him, though he felt a pity for the forlorn and hopeless devil.  They did not get along together, these two men who, of all men, should have been on good terms in the face of the cold and silence and darkness of the long winter.

In the end, Bonner concluded that Amos was partly demented, and left him alone, doing all the work himself except the cooking.  Even then, Amos had nothing but bitter looks and an undisguised hatred for him.  This was a great loss to Bonner; for the smiling face of one of his own kind, the cheery word, the sympathy of comradeship shared with misfortune—these things meant much; and the winter was yet young when he began to realize the added reasons, with such an assistant, that the previous agent had found to impel his own hand against his life.

It was very lonely at Twenty Mile.  The bleak vastness stretched away on every side to the horizon.  The snow, which was really frost, flung its mantle over the land and buried everything in the silence of death.  For days it was clear and cold, the thermometer steadily recording forty to fifty degrees below zero.  Then a change came over the face of things.  What little moisture had oozed into the atmosphere gathered into dull grey, formless clouds; it became quite warm, the thermometer rising to twenty below; and the moisture fell out of the sky in hard frost-granules that hissed like dry sugar or driving sand when kicked underfoot.  After that it became clear and cold again, until enough moisture had gathered to blanket the earth from the cold of outer space.  That was all.  Nothing happened.  No storms, no churning waters and threshing forests, nothing but the machine-like precipitation of accumulated moisture.  Possibly the most notable thing that occurred through the weary weeks was the gliding of the temperature up to the unprecedented height of fifteen below.  To atone for this, outer space smote the earth with its cold till the mercury froze and the spirit thermometer remained more than seventy below for a fortnight, when it burst.  There was no telling how much colder it was after that.  Another occurrence, monotonous in its regularity, was the lengthening of the nights, till day became a mere blink of light between the darkness. 

Neil Bonner was a social animal.  The very follies for which he was doing penance had been bred of his excessive sociability.  And here, in the fourth year of his exile, he found himself in company—which were to travesty the word—with a morose and speechless creature in whose sombre eyes smouldered a hatred as bitter as it was unwarranted.  And Bonner, to whom speech and fellowship were as the breath of life, went about as a ghost might go, tantalized by the gregarious revelries of some former life.  In the day his lips were compressed, his face stern; but in the night he clenched his hands, rolled about in his blankets, and cried aloud like a little child.  And he would remember a certain man in authority and curse him through the long hours.  Also, he cursed God.  But God understands.  He cannot find it in his heart to blame weak mortals who blaspheme in Alaska.

And here, to the post of Twenty Mile, came Jees Uck, to trade for flour and bacon, and beads, and bright scarlet cloths for her fancy work.  And further, and unwittingly, she came to the post of Twenty Mile to make a lonely man more lonely, make him reach out empty arms in his sleep.  For Neil Bonner was only a man.  When she first came into the store, he looked at her long, as a thirsty man may look at a flowing well.  And she, with the heritage bequeathed her by Spike O’Brien, imagined daringly and smiled up into his eyes, not as the swart-skinned peoples should smile at the royal races, but as a woman smiles at a man.  The thing was inevitable; only, he did not see it, and fought against her as fiercely and passionately as he was drawn towards her.  And she?  She was Jees Uck, by upbringing wholly and utterly a Toyaat Indian woman.

She came often to the post to trade.  And often she sat by the big wood stove and chatted in broken English with Neil Bonner.  And he came to look for her coming; and on the days she did not come he was worried and restless.  Sometimes he stopped to think, and then she was met coldly, with a resolve that perplexed and piqued her, and which, she was convinced, was not sincere.  But more often he did not dare to think, and then all went well and there were smiles and laughter.  And Amos Pentley, gasping like a stranded catfish, his hollow cough a-reek with the grave, looked upon it all and grinned.  He, who loved life, could not live, and it rankled his soul that others should be able to live.  Wherefore he hated Bonner, who was so very much alive and into whose eyes sprang joy at the sight of Jees Uck.  As for Amos, the very thought of the girl was sufficient to send his blood pounding up into a hemorrhage.

Jees Uck, whose mind was simple, who thought elementally and was unused to weighing life in its subtler quantities, read Amos Pentley like a book.  She warned Bonner, openly and bluntly, in few words; but the complexities of higher existence confused the situation to him, and he laughed at her evident anxiety.  To him, Amos was a poor, miserable devil, tottering desperately into the grave.  And Bonner, who had suffered much, found it easy to forgive greatly.

But one morning, during a bitter snap, he got up from the breakfast-table and went into the store.  Jees Uck was already there, rosy from the trail, to buy a sack of flour.  A few minutes later, he was out in the snow lashing the flour on her sled.  As he bent over he noticed a stiffness in his neck and felt a premonition of impending physical misfortune.  And as he put the last half-hitch into the lashing and attempted to straighten up, a quick spasm seized him and he sank into the snow.  Tense and quivering, head jerked back, limbs extended, back arched and mouth twisted and distorted, he appeared as though being racked limb from limb.  Without cry or sound, Jees Uck was in the snow beside him; but he clutched both her wrists spasmodically, and as long as the convulsion endured she was helpless.  In a few moments the spasm relaxed and he was left weak and fainting, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his lips flecked with foam.

“Quick!” he muttered, in a strange, hoarse voice.  “Quick!  Inside!”

He started to crawl on hands and knees, but she raised him up, and, supported by her young arm, he made faster progress.  As he entered the store the spasm seized him again, and his body writhed irresistibly away from her and rolled and curled on the floor.  Amos Pentley came and looked on with curious eyes.

“Oh, Amos!” she cried in an agony of apprehension and helplessness, “him die, you think?”  But Amos shrugged his shoulders and continued to look on.

Bonner’s body went slack, the tense muscles easing down and an expression of relief coming into his face.  “Quick!” he gritted between his teeth, his mouth twisting with the on-coming of the next spasm and with his effort to control it.  “Quick, Jees Uck!  The medicine!  Never mind!  Drag me!”

She knew where the medicine-chest stood, at the rear of the room beyond the stove, and thither, by the legs, she dragged the struggling man.  As the spasm passed he began, very faint and very sick, to overhaul the chest.  He had seen dogs die exhibiting symptoms similar to his own, and he knew what should be done.  He held up a vial of chloral hydrate, but his fingers were too weak and nerveless to draw the cork.  This Jees Uck did for him, while he was plunged into another convulsion.  As he came out of it he found the open bottle proffered him, and looked into the great black eyes of the woman and read what men have always read in the Mate-woman’s eyes.  Taking a full dose of the stuff, he sank back until another spasm had passed.  Then he raised himself limply on his elbow.

“Listen, Jees Uck!” he said very slowly, as though aware of the necessity for haste and yet afraid to hasten.  “Do what I say.  Stay by my side, but do not touch me.  I must be very quiet, but you must not go away.”  His jaw began to set and his face to quiver and distort with the fore-running pangs, but he gulped and struggled to master them.  “Do not got away.  And do not let Amos go away.  Understand!  Amos must stay right here.”

She nodded her head, and he passed off into the first of many convulsions, which gradually diminished in force and frequency.  Jees Uck hung over him remembering his injunction and not daring to touch him.  Once Amos grew restless and made as though to go into the kitchen; but a quick blaze from her eyes quelled him, and after that, save for his laboured breathing and charnel cough, he was very quiet.

Bonner slept.  The blink of light that marked the day disappeared.  Amos, followed about by the woman’s eyes, lighted the kerosene lamps.  Evening came on.  Through the north window the heavens were emblazoned with an auroral display, which flamed and flared and died down into blackness.  Some time after that, Neil Bonner roused.  First he looked to see that Amos was still there, then smiled at Jees Uck and pulled himself up.  Every muscle was stiff and sore, and he smiled ruefully, pressing and prodding himself as if to ascertain the extent of the ravage.  Then his face went stern and businesslike.

“Jees Uck,” he said, “take a candle.  Go into the kitchen.  There is food on the table—biscuits and beans and bacon; also, coffee in the pot on the stove.  Bring it here on the counter.  Also, bring tumblers and water and whisky, which you will find on the top shelf of the locker.  Do not forget the whisky.”

Having swallowed a stiff glass of the whisky, he went carefully through the medicine chest, now and again putting aside, with definite purpose, certain bottles and vials.  Then he set to work on the food, attempting a crude analysis.  He had not been unused to the laboratory in his college days and was possessed of sufficient imagination to achieve results with his limited materials.  The condition of tetanus, which had marked his paroxysms, simplified matters, and he made but one test.  The coffee yielded nothing; nor did the beans.  To the biscuits he devoted the utmost care.  Amos, who knew nothing of chemistry, looked on with steady curiosity.  But Jees Uck, who had boundless faith in the white man’s wisdom, and especially in Neil Bonner’s wisdom, and who not only knew nothing but knew that she knew nothing watched his face rather than his hands.

Step by step he eliminated possibilities, until he came to the final test.  He was using a thin medicine vial for a tube, and this he held between him and the light, watching the slow precipitation of a salt through the solution contained in the tube.  He said nothing, but he saw what he had expected to see.  And Jees Uck, her eyes riveted on his face, saw something too,—something that made her spring like a tigress upon Amos, and with splendid suppleness and strength bend his body back across her knee.  Her knife was out of its sheaf and uplifted, glinting in the lamplight.  Amos was snarling; but Bonner intervened ere the blade could fall.

“That’s a good girl, Jees Uck.  But never mind.  Let him go!”

She dropped the man obediently, though with protest writ large on her face; and his body thudded to the floor.  Bonner nudged him with his moccasined foot.

“Get up, Amos!” he commanded.  “You’ve got to pack an outfit yet to-night and hit the trail.”

“You don’t mean to say—” Amos blurted savagely.

“I mean to say that you tried to kill me,” Neil went on in cold, even tones.  “I mean to say that you killed Birdsall, for all the Company believes he killed himself.  You used strychnine in my case.  God knows with what you fixed him.  Now I can’t hang you.  You’re too near dead as it is.  But Twenty Mile is too small for the pair of us, and you’ve got to mush.  It’s two hundred miles to Holy Cross.  You can make it if you’re careful not to over-exert.  I’ll give you grub, a sled, and three dogs.  You’ll be as safe as if you were in jail, for you can’t get out of the country.  And I’ll give you one chance.  You’re almost dead.  Very well.  I shall send no word to the Company until the spring.  In the meantime, the thing for you to do is to die.  Now mush!”

“You go to bed!” Jees Uck insisted, when Amos had churned away into the night towards Holy Cross.  “You sick man yet, Neil.”

“And you’re a good girl, Jees Uck,” he answered.  “And here’s my hand on it.  But you must go home.”

“You don’t like me,” she said simply.

He smiled, helped her on with her parka, and led her to the door.  “Only too well, Jees Uck,” he said softly; “only too well.”

After that the pall of the Arctic night fell deeper and blacker on the land.  Neil Bonner discovered that he had failed to put proper valuation upon even the sullen face of the murderous and death-stricken Amos.  It became very lonely at Twenty Mile.  “For the love of God, Prentiss, send me a man,” he wrote to the agent at Fort Hamilton, three hundred miles up river.  Six weeks later the Indian messenger brought back a reply.  It was characteristic: “Hell.  Both feet frozen.  Need him myself—Prentiss.”

To make matters worse, most of the Toyaats were in the back country on the flanks of a caribou herd, and Jees Uck was with them.  Removing to a distance seemed to bring her closer than ever, and Neil Bonner found himself picturing her, day by day, in camp and on trail.  It is not good to be alone.  Often he went out of the quiet store, bare-headed and frantic, and shook his fist at the blink of day that came over the southern sky-line.  And on still, cold nights he left his bed and stumbled into the frost, where he assaulted the silence at the top of his lungs, as though it were some tangible, sentiment thing that he might arouse; or he shouted at the sleeping dogs till they howled and howled again.  One shaggy brute he brought into the post, playing that it was the new man sent by Prentiss.  He strove to make it sleep decently under blankets at nights and to sit at table and eat as a man should; but the beast, mere domesticated wolf that it was, rebelled, and sought out dark corners and snarled and bit him in the leg, and was finally beaten and driven forth.

Then the trick of personification seized upon Neil Bonner and mastered him.  All the forces of his environment metamorphosed into living, breathing entities and came to live with him.  He recreated the primitive pantheon; reared an altar to the sun and burned candle fat and bacon grease thereon; and in the unfenced yard, by the long-legged cache, made a frost devil, which he was wont to make faces at and mock when the mercury oozed down into the bulb.  All this in play, of course.  He said it to himself that it was in play, and repeated it over and over to make sure, unaware that madness is ever prone to express itself in make-believe and play. 

One midwinter day, Father Champreau, a Jesuit missionary, pulled into Twenty Mile.  Bonner fell upon him and dragged him into the post, and clung to him and wept, until the priest wept with him from sheer compassion.  Then Bonner became madly hilarious and made lavish entertainment, swearing valiantly that his guest should not depart.  But Father Champreau was pressing to Salt Water on urgent business for his order, and pulled out next morning, with Bonner’s blood threatened on his head.

And the threat was in a fair way toward realization, when the Toyaats returned from their long hunt to the winter camp.  They had many furs, and there was much trading and stir at Twenty Mile.  Also, Jees Uck came to buy beads and scarlet cloths and things, and Bonner began to find himself again.  He fought for a week against her.  Then the end came one night when she rose to leave.  She had not forgotten her repulse, and the pride that drove Spike O’Brien on to complete the North-West Passage by land was her pride.

“I go now,” she said; “good-night, Neil.”

But he came up behind her.  “Nay, it is not well,” he said.

And as she turned her face toward his with a sudden joyful flash, he bent forward, slowly and gravely, as it were a sacred thing, and kissed her on the lips.  The Toyaats had never taught her the meaning of a kiss upon the lips, but she understood and was glad.

With the coming of Jees Uck, at once things brightened up.  She was regal in her happiness, a source of unending delight.  The elemental workings of her mind and her naive little ways made an immense sum of pleasurable surprise to the over-civilized man that had stooped to catch her up.  Not alone was she solace to his loneliness, but her primitiveness rejuvenated his jaded mind.  It was as though, after long wandering, he had returned to pillow his head in the lap of Mother Earth.  In short, in Jees Uck he found the youth of the world—the youth and the strength and the joy.

And to fill the full round of his need, and that they might not see overmuch of each other, there arrived at Twenty Mile one Sandy MacPherson, as companionable a man as ever whistled along the trail or raised a ballad by a camp-fire.  A Jesuit priest had run into his camp, a couple of hundred miles up the Yukon, in the nick of time to say a last word over the body of Sandy’s partner.  And on departing, the priest had said, “My son, you will be lonely now.”  And Sandy had bowed his head brokenly.  “At Twenty Mile,” the priest added, “there is a lonely man.  You have need of each other, my son.”

So it was that Sandy became a welcome third at the post, brother to the man and woman that resided there.  He took Bonner moose-hunting and wolf-trapping; and, in return, Bonner resurrected a battered and way-worn volume and made him friends with Shakespeare, till Sandy declaimed iambic pentameters to his sled-dogs whenever they waxed mutinous.  And of the long evenings they played cribbage and talked and disagreed about the universe, the while Jees Uck rocked matronly in an easy-chair and darned their moccasins and socks.

Spring came.  The sun shot up out of the south.  The land exchanged its austere robes for the garb of a smiling wanton.  Everywhere light laughed and life invited.  The days stretched out their balmy length and the nights passed from blinks of darkness to no darkness at all.  The river bared its bosom, and snorting steamboats challenged the wilderness.  There were stir and bustle, new faces, and fresh facts.  An assistant arrived at Twenty Mile, and Sandy MacPherson wandered off with a bunch of prospectors to invade the Koyokuk country.  And there were newspapers and magazines and letters for Neil Bonner.  And Jees Uck looked on in worriment, for she knew his kindred talked with him across the world.

Without much shock, it came to him that his father was dead.  There was a sweet letter of forgiveness, dictated in his last hours.  There were official letters from the Company, graciously ordering him to turn the post over to the assistant and permitting him to depart at his earliest pleasure.  A long, legal affair from the lawyers informed him of interminable lists of stocks and bonds, real estate, rents, and chattels that were his by his father’s will.  And a dainty bit of stationery, sealed and monogramed, implored dear Neil’s return to his heart-broken and loving mother.

Neil Bonner did some swift thinking, and when the Yukon Belle coughed in to the bank on her way down to Bering Sea, he departed—departed with the ancient lie of quick return young and blithe on his lips.

“I’ll come back, dear Jees Uck, before the first snow flies,” he promised her, between the last kisses at the gang-plank.

And not only did he promise, but, like the majority of men under the same circumstances, he really meant it.  To John Thompson, the new agent, he gave orders for the extension of unlimited credit to his wife, Jees Uck.  Also, with his last look from the deck of the Yukon Belle, he saw a dozen men at work rearing the logs that were to make the most comfortable house along a thousand miles of river front—the house of Jees Uck, and likewise the house of Neil Bonner—ere the first flurry of snow.  For he fully and fondly meant to come back.  Jees Uck was dear to him, and, further, a golden future awaited the north.  With his father’s money he intended to verify that future.  An ambitious dream allured him.  With his four years of experience, and aided by the friendly coöperation of the P. C. Company, he would return to become the Rhodes of Alaska.  And he would return, fast as steam could drive, as soon as he had put into shape the affairs of his father, whom he had never known, and comforted his mother, whom he had forgotten.

There was much ado when Neil Bonner came back from the Arctic.  The fires were lighted and the fleshpots slung, and he took of it all and called it good.  Not only was he bronzed and creased, but he was a new man under his skin, with a grip on things and a seriousness and control.  His old companions were amazed when he declined to hit up the pace in the good old way, while his father’s crony rubbed hands gleefully, and became an authority upon the reclamation of wayward and idle youth.

For four years Neil Bonner’s mind had lain fallow.  Little that was new had been added to it, but it had undergone a process of selection.  It had, so to say, been purged of the trivial and superfluous.  He had lived quick years, down in the world; and, up in the wilds, time had been given him to organize the confused mass of his experiences.  His superficial standards had been flung to the winds and new standards erected on deeper and broader generalizations.  Concerning civilization, he had gone away with one set of values, had returned with another set of values.  Aided, also, by the earth smells in his nostrils and the earth sights in his eyes, he laid hold of the inner significance of civilization, beholding with clear vision its futilities and powers.  It was a simple little philosophy he evolved.  Clean living was the way to grace.  Duty performed was sanctification.  One must live clean and do his duty in order that he might work.  Work was salvation.  And to work toward life abundant, and more abundant, was to be in line with the scheme of things and the will of God. 

Primarily, he was of the city.  And his fresh earth grip and virile conception of humanity gave him a finer sense of civilization and endeared civilization to him.  Day by day the people of the city clung closer to him and the world loomed more colossal.  And, day by day, Alaska grew more remote and less real.  And then he met Kitty Sharon—a woman of his own flesh and blood and kind; a woman who put her hand into his hand and drew him to her, till he forgot the day and hour and the time of the year the first snow flies on the Yukon.

Jees Uck moved into her grand log-house and dreamed away three golden summer months.  Then came the autumn, post-haste before the down rush of winter.  The air grew thin and sharp, the days thin and short.  The river ran sluggishly, and skin ice formed in the quiet eddies.  All migratory life departed south, and silence fell upon the land.  The first snow flurries came, and the last homing steamboat bucked desperately into the running mush ice.  Then came the hard ice, solid cakes and sheets, till the Yukon ran level with its banks.  And when all this ceased the river stood still and the blinking days lost themselves in the darkness.

John Thompson, the new agent, laughed; but Jees Uck had faith in the mischances of sea and river.  Neil Bonner might be frozen in anywhere between Chilkoot Pass and St. Michael’s, for the last travellers of the year are always caught by the ice, when they exchange boat for sled and dash on through the long hours behind the flying dogs.

But no flying dogs came up the trail, nor down the trail, to Twenty Mile.  And John Thompson told Jees Uck, with a certain gladness ill concealed, that Bonner would never come back again.  Also, and brutally, he suggested his own eligibility.  Jees Uck laughed in his face and went back to her grand log-house.  But when midwinter came, when hope dies down and life is at its lowest ebb, Jees Uck found she had no credit at the store.  This was Thompson’s doing, and he rubbed his hands, and walked up and down, and came to his door and looked up at Jees Uck’s house and waited.  And he continued to wait.  She sold her dog-team to a party of miners and paid cash for her food.  And when Thompson refused to honour even her coin, Toyaat Indians made her purchases, and sledded them up to her house in the dark.

In February the first post came in over the ice, and John Thompson read in the society column of a five-months-old paper of the marriage of Neil Bonner and Kitty Sharon.  Jees Uck held the door ajar and him outside while he imparted the information; and, when he had done, laughed pridefully and did not believe.  In March, and all alone, she gave birth to a man-child, a brave bit of new life at which she marvelled.  And at that hour, a year later, Neil Bonner sat by another bed, marvelling at another bit of new life that had fared into the world.

The snow went off the ground and the ice broke out of the Yukon.  The sun journeyed north, and journeyed south again; and, the money from the being spent, Jees Uck went back to her own people.  Oche Ish, a shrewd hunter, proposed to kill the meat for her and her babe, and catch the salmon, if she would marry him.  And Imego and Hah Yo and Wy Nooch, husky young hunters all, made similar proposals.  But she elected to live alone and seek her own meat and fish.  She sewed moccasins and parkas and mittens—warm, serviceable things, and pleasing to the eye, withal, what of the ornamental hair-tufts and bead-work.  These she sold to the miners, who were drifting faster into the land each year.  And not only did she win food that was good and plentiful, but she laid money by, and one day took passage on the Yukon Belle down the river.

At St. Michael’s she washed dishes in the kitchen of the post.  The servants of the Company wondered at the remarkable woman with the remarkable child, though they asked no questions and she vouchsafed nothing.  But just before Bering Sea closed in for the year, she bought a passage south on a strayed sealing schooner.  That winter she cooked for Captain Markheim’s household at Unalaska, and in the spring continued south to Sitka on a whisky sloop.  Later on appeared at Metlakahtla, which is near to St. Mary’s on the end of the Pan-Handle, where she worked in the cannery through the salmon season.  When autumn came and the Siwash fishermen prepared to return to Puget Sound, she embarked with a couple of families in a big cedar canoe; and with them she threaded the hazardous chaos of the Alaskan and Canadian coasts, till the Straits of Juan de Fuca were passed and she led her boy by the hand up the hard pave of Seattle.

There she met Sandy MacPherson, on a windy corner, very much surprised and, when he had heard her story, very wroth—not so wroth as he might have been, had he known of Kitty Sharon; but of her Jees Uck breathed not a word, for she had never believed.  Sandy, who read commonplace and sordid desertion into the circumstance, strove to dissuade her from her trip to San Francisco, where Neil Bonner was supposed to live when he was at home.  And, having striven, he made her comfortable, bought her tickets and saw her off, the while smiling in her face and muttering “dam-shame” into his beard.

With roar and rumble, through daylight and dark, swaying and lurching between the dawns, soaring into the winter snows and sinking to summer valleys, skirting depths, leaping chasms, piercing mountains, Jees Uck and her boy were hurled south.  But she had no fear of the iron stallion; nor was she stunned by this masterful civilization of Neil Bonner’s people.  It seemed, rather, that she saw with greater clearness the wonder that a man of such godlike race had held her in his arms.  The screaming medley of San Francisco, with its restless shipping, belching factories, and thundering traffic, did not confuse her; instead, she comprehended swiftly the pitiful sordidness of Twenty Mile and the skin-lodged Toyaat village.  And she looked down at the boy that clutched her hand and wondered that she had borne him by such a man. 

She paid the hack-driver five pieces and went up the stone steps of Neil Bonner’s front door.  A slant-eyed Japanese parleyed with her for a fruitless space, then led her inside and disappeared.  She remained in the hall, which to her simply fancy seemed to be the guest-room—the show-place wherein were arrayed all the household treasures with the frank purpose of parade and dazzlement.  The walls and ceiling were of oiled and panelled redwood.  The floor was more glassy than glare-ice, and she sought standing place on one of the great skins that gave a sense of security to the polished surface.  A huge fireplace—an extravagant fireplace, she deemed it—yawned in the farther wall.  A flood of light, mellowed by stained glass, fell across the room, and from the far end came the white gleam of a marble figure.

This much she saw, and more, when the slant-eyed servant led the way past another room—of which she caught a fleeting glance—and into a third, both of which dimmed the brave show of the entrance hall.  And to her eyes the great house seemed to hold out the promise of endless similar rooms.  There was such length and breadth to them, and the ceilings were so far away!  For the first time since her advent into the white man’s civilization, a feeling of awe laid hold of her.  Neil, her Neil, lived in this house, breathed the air of it, and lay down at night and slept!  It was beautiful, all this that she saw, and it pleased her; but she felt, also, the wisdom and mastery behind.  It was the concrete expression of power in terms of beauty, and it was the power that she unerringly divined.

And then came a woman, queenly tall, crowned with a glory of hair that was like a golden sun.  She seemed to come toward Jees Uck as a ripple of music across still water; her sweeping garment itself a song, her body playing rhythmically beneath.  Jees Uck herself was a man compeller.  There were Oche Ish and Imego and Hah Yo and Wy Nooch, to say nothing of Neil Bonner and John Thompson and other white men that had looked upon her and felt her power.  But she gazed upon the wide blue eyes and rose-white skin of this woman that advanced to meet her, and she measured her with woman’s eyes looking through man’s eyes; and as a man compeller she felt herself diminish and grow insignificant before this radiant and flashing creature.

“You wish to see my husband?” the woman asked; and Jees Uck gasped at the liquid silver of a voice that had never sounded harsh cries at snarling wolf-dogs, nor moulded itself to a guttural speech, nor toughened in storm and frost and camp smoke.

“No,” Jees Uck answered slowly and gropingly, in order that she might do justice to her English.  “I come to see Neil Bonner.”

“He is my husband,” the woman laughed.

Then it was true!  John Thompson had not lied that bleak February day, when she laughed pridefully and shut the door in his face.  As once she had thrown Amos Pentley across her knee and ripped her knife into the air, so now she felt impelled to spring upon this woman and bear her back and down, and tear the life out of her fair body.  But Jees Uck was thinking quickly and gave no sign, and Kitty Bonner little dreamed how intimately she had for an instant been related with sudden death.

Jees Uck nodded her head that she understood, and Kitty Bonner explained that Neil was expected at any moment.  Then they sat down on ridiculously comfortable chairs, and Kitty sought to entertain her strange visitor, and Jees Uck strove to help her.

“You knew my husband in the North?” Kitty asked, once.

“Sure.  I wash um clothes,” Jees Uck had answered, her English abruptly beginning to grow atrocious.

“And this is your boy?  I have a little girl.”

Kitty caused her daughter to be brought, and while the children, after their manner, struck an acquaintance, the mothers indulged in the talk of mothers and drank tea from cups so fragile that Jees Uck feared lest hers should crumble to pieces beneath her fingers.  Never had she seen such cups, so delicate and dainty.  In her mind she compared them with the woman who poured the tea, and there uprose in contrast the gourds and pannikins of the Toyaat village and the clumsy mugs of Twenty Mile, to which she likened herself.  And in such fashion and such terms the problem presented itself.  She was beaten.  There was a woman other than herself better fitted to bear and upbring Neil Bonner’s children.  Just as his people exceeded her people, so did his womankind exceed her.  They were the man compellers, as their men were the world compellers.  She looked at the rose-white tenderness of Kitty Bonner’s skin and remembered the sun-beat on her own face.  Likewise she looked from brown hand to white—the one, work-worn and hardened by whip-handle and paddle, the other as guiltless of toil and soft as a newborn babe’s.  And, for all the obvious softness and apparent weakness, Jees Uck looked into the blue eyes and saw the mastery she had seen in Neil Bonner’s eyes and in the eyes of Neil Bonner’s people.

“Why, it’s Jees Uck!” Neil Bonner said, when he entered.  He said it calmly, with even a ring of joyful cordiality, coming over to her and shaking both her hands, but looking into her eyes with a worry in his own that she understood.

“Hello, Neil!” she said.  “You look much good.”

“Fine, fine, Jees Uck,” he answered heartily, though secretly studying Kitty for some sign of what had passed between the two.  Yet he knew his wife too well to expect, even though the worst had passed, such a sign.

“Well, I can’t say how glad I am to see you,” he went on.  “What’s happened?  Did you strike a mine?  And when did you get in?”

“Oo-a, I get in to-day,” she replied, her voice instinctively seeking its guttural parts.  “I no strike it, Neil.  You known Cap’n Markheim, Unalaska?  I cook, his house, long time.  No spend money.  Bime-by, plenty.  Pretty good, I think, go down and see White Man’s Land.  Very fine, White Man’s Land, very fine,” she added.  Her English puzzled him, for Sandy and he had sought, constantly, to better her speech, and she had proved an apt pupil.  Now it seemed that she had sunk back into her race.  Her face was guileless, stolidly guileless, giving no cue.  Kitty’s untroubled brow likewise baffled him.  What had happened?  How much had been said? and how much guessed? 

While he wrestled with these questions and while Jees Uck wrestled with her problem—never had he looked so wonderful and great—a silence fell.

“To think that you knew my husband in Alaska!” Kitty said softly.

Knew him!  Jees Uck could not forbear a glance at the boy she had borne him, and his eyes followed hers mechanically to the window where played the two children.  An iron hand seemed to tighten across his forehead.  His knees went weak and his heart leaped up and pounded like a fist against his breast.  His boy!  He had never dreamed it!

Little Kitty Bonner, fairylike in gauzy lawn, with pinkest of cheeks and bluest of dancing eyes, arms outstretched and lips puckered in invitation, was striving to kiss the boy.  And the boy, lean and lithe, sunbeaten and browned, skin-clad and in hair-fringed and hair-tufted muclucs that showed the wear of the sea and rough work, coolly withstood her advances, his body straight and stiff with the peculiar erectness common to children of savage people.  A stranger in a strange land, unabashed and unafraid, he appeared more like an untamed animal, silent and watchful, his black eyes flashing from face to face, quiet so long as quiet endured, but prepared to spring and fight and tear and scratch for life, at the first sign of danger.

The contrast between boy and girl was striking, but not pitiful.  There was too much strength in the boy for that, waif that he was of the generations of Shpack, Spike O’Brien, and Bonner.  In his features, clean cut as a cameo and almost classic in their severity, there were the power and achievement of his father, and his grandfather, and the one known as the Big Fat, who was captured by the Sea people and escaped to Kamchatka.

Neil Bonner fought his emotion down, swallowed it down, and choked over it, though his face smiled with good-humour and the joy with which one meets a friend.

“Your boy, eh, Jees Uck?” he said.  And then turning to Kitty: “Handsome fellow!  He’ll do something with those two hands of his in this our world.”

Kitty nodded concurrence.  “What is your name?” she asked.

The young savage flashed his quick eyes upon her and dwelt over her for a space, seeking out, as it were, the motive beneath the question.

“Neil,” he answered deliberately when the scrutiny had satisfied him.

“Injun talk,” Jees Uck interposed, glibly manufacturing languages on the spur of the moment.  “Him Injun talk, nee-al  all the same ‘cracker.’  Him baby, him like cracker; him cry for cracker.  Him say, ‘Nee-al, nee-al,’ all time him say, ‘Nee-al.’  Then I say that um name.  So um name all time Nee-al.”

Never did sound more blessed fall upon Neil Bonner’s ear than that lie from Jees Uck’s lips.  It was the cue, and he knew there was reason for Kitty’s untroubled brow.

“And his father?” Kitty asked.  “He must be a fine man.”

“Oo-a, yes,” was the reply.  “Um father fine man.  Sure!”

“Did you know him, Neil?” queried Kitty.

“Know him?  Most intimately,” Neil answered, and harked back to dreary Twenty Mile and the man alone in the silence with his thoughts.

And here might well end the story of Jees Uck but for the crown she put upon her renunciation.  When she returned to the North to dwell in her grand log-house, John Thompson found that the P. C. Company could make a shift somehow to carry on its business without his aid.  Also, the new agent and the succeeding agents received instructions that the woman Jees Uck should be given whatsoever goods and grub she desired, in whatsoever quantities she ordered, and that no charge should be placed upon the books.  Further, the Company paid yearly to the woman Jees Uck a pension of five thousand dollars.

When he had attained suitable age, Father Champreau laid hands upon the boy, and the time was not long when Jees Uck received letters regularly from the Jesuit college in Maryland.  Later on these letters came from Italy, and still later from France.  And in the end there returned to Alaska one Father Neil, a man mighty for good in the land, who loved his mother and who ultimately went into a wider field and rose to high authority in the order.

Jees Uck was a young woman when she went back into the North, and men still looked upon her and yearned.  But she lived straight, and no breath was ever raised save in commendation.  She stayed for a while with the good sisters at Holy Cross, where she learned to read and write and became versed in practical medicine and surgery.  After that she returned to her grand log-house and gathered about her the young girls of the Toyaat village, to show them the way of their feet in the world.  It is neither Protestant nor Catholic, this school in the house built by Neil Bonner for Jees Uck, his wife; but the missionaries of all the sects look upon it with equal favour.  The latchstring is always out, and tired prospectors and trail-weary men turn aside from the flowing river or frozen trail to rest there for a space and be warm by her fire.  And, down in the States, Kitty Bonner is pleased at the interest her husband takes in Alaskan education and the large sums he devotes to that purpose; and, though she often smiles and chaffs, deep down and secretly she is but the prouder of him.

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6. THE SICKNESS OF LONE CHIEF 

This is a tale that was told to me by two old men. We sat in the smoke of a mosquito-smudge, in the cool of the day, which was midnight; and ever and anon, throughout the telling, we smote lustily and with purpose at such of the winged pests as braved the smoke for a snack at our hides. To the right, beneath us, twenty feet down the crumbling bank, the Yukon gurgled lazily. To the left, on the rose-leaf rim of the low-lying hills, smouldered the sleepy sun, which saw no sleep that night nor was destined to see sleep for many nights to come.

The old men who sat with me and valorously slew mosquitoes were Lone Chief and Mutsak, erstwhile comrades in arms, and now withered repositories of tradition and ancient happening. They were the last of their generation and without honor among the younger set which had grown up on the farthest fringe of a mining civilization. Who cared for tradition in these days, when spirits could be evoked from black bottles, and black bottles could be evoked from the complaisant white men for a few hours' sweat or a mangy fur? Of what potency the fearful rites and masked mysteries of shamanism, when daily that living wonder, the steamboat, coughed and spluttered up and down the Yukon in defiance of all law, a veritable fire-breathing monster? And of what value was hereditary prestige, when he who now chopped the most wood, or best conned a stern-wheeler through the island mazes, attained the chiefest consideration of his fellows?

Of a truth, having lived too long, they had fallen on evil days, these two old men, Lone Chief and Mutsak, and in the new order they were without honor or place. So they waited drearily for death, and the while their hearts warmed to the strange white man who shared with them the torments of the mosquito-smudge and lent ready ear to their tales of old time before the steamboat came.

"So a girl was chosen for me," Lone Chief was saying. His voice, shrill and piping, ever and again dropped plummet-like into a hoarse and rattling bass, and, just as one became accustomed to it, soaring upward into the thin treble—alternate cricket chirpings and bullfrog croakings, as it were.

"So a girl was chosen for me," he was saying. "For my father, who was Kask-ta-ka, the Otter, was angered because I looked not with a needful eye upon women. He was an old man, and chief of his tribe. I was the last of his sons to be alive, and through me, only, could he look to see his blood go down among those to come after and as yet unborn. But know, O White Man, that I was very sick; and when neither the hunting nor the fishing delighted me, and by meat my belly was not made warm, how should I look with favor upon women? or prepare for the feast of marriage? or look forward to the prattle and troubles of little children?"

"Ay," Mutsak interrupted. "For had not Lone Chief fought in the arms of a great bear till his head was cracked and blood ran from out his ears?"

Lone Chief nodded vigorously. "Mutsak speaks true. In the time that followed, my head was well, and it was not well. For though the flesh healed and the sore went away, yet was I sick inside. When I walked, my legs shook under me, and when I looked at the light, my eyes became filled with tears. And when I opened my eyes, the world outside went around and around, and when I closed my eyes, my head inside went around and around, and all the things I had ever seen went around and around inside my head. And above my eyes there was a great pain, as though something heavy rested always upon me, or like a band that is drawn tight and gives much hurt. And speech was slow to me, and I waited long for each right word to come to my tongue. And when I waited not long, all manner of words crowded in, and my tongue spoke foolishness. I was very sick, and when my father, the Otter, brought the girl Kasaan before me—"

"Who was a young girl, and strong, my sister's child," Mutsak broke in. "Strong-hipped for children was Kasaan, and straight-legged and quick of foot. She made better moccasins than any of all the young girls, and the bark-rope she braided was the stoutest. And she had a smile in her eyes, and a laugh on her lips; and her temper was not hasty, nor was she unmindful that men give the law and women ever obey."

"As I say, I was very sick," Lone Chief went on. "And when my father, the Otter, brought the girl Kasaan before me, I said rather should they make me ready for burial than for marriage. Whereat the face of my father went black with anger, and he said that I should be served according to my wish, and that I who was yet alive should be made ready for death as one already dead—"

"Which be not the way of our people, O White Man," spoke up Mutsak. "For know that these things that were done to Lone Chief it was our custom to do only to dead men. But the Otter was very angry."

"Ay," said Lone Chief. "My father, the Otter, was a man short of speech and swift of deed. And he commanded the people to gather before the lodge wherein I lay. And when they were gathered, he commanded them to mourn for his son who was dead—"

"And before the lodge they sang the death-song—O-o-o-o-o-o-a-haa-ha-a-ich-klu-kuk-ich-klu-kuk," wailed Mutsak, in so excellent an imitation that all the tendrils of my spine crawled and curved in sympathy.

"And inside the lodge," continued Lone Chief, "my mother blackened her face with soot, and flung ashes upon her head, and mourned for me as one already dead; for so had my father commanded. So Okiakuta, my mother, mourned with much noise, and beat her breasts and tore her hair; and likewise Hooniak, my sister, and Seenatah, my mother's sister; and the noise they made caused a great ache in my head, and I felt that I would surely and immediately die.

"And the elders of the tribe gathered about me where I lay and discussed the journey my soul must take. One spoke of the thick and endless forests where lost souls wandered crying, and where I, too, might chance to wander and never see the end. And another spoke of the big rivers, rapid with bad water, where evil spirits shrieked and lifted up their formless arms to drag one down by the hair. For these rivers, all said together, a canoe must be provided me. And yet another spoke of the storms, such as no live man ever saw, when the stars rained down out of the sky, and the earth gaped wide in many cracks, and all the rivers in the heart of the earth rushed out and in. Whereupon they that sat by me flung up their arms and wailed loudly; and those outside heard, and wailed more loudly. And as to them I was as dead, so was I to my own mind dead. I did not know when, or how, yet did I know that I had surely died. 

"And Okiakuta, my mother, laid beside me my squirrel-skin parka. Also she laid beside me my parka of caribou hide, and my rain coat of seal gut, and my wet-weather muclucs, that my soul should be warm and dry on its long journey. Further, there was mention made of a steep hill, thick with briers and devil's-club, and she fetched heavy moccasins to make the way easy for my feet.

"And when the elders spoke of the great beasts I should have to slay, the young men laid beside me my strongest bow and straightest arrows, my throwing-stick, my spear and knife. And when the elders spoke of the darkness and silence of the great spaces my soul must wander through, my mother wailed yet more loudly and flung yet more ashes upon her head.

"And the girl, Kasaan, crept in, very timid and quiet, and dropped a little bag upon the things for my journey. And in the little bag, I knew, were the flint and steel and the well-dried tinder for the fires my soul must build. And the blankets were chosen which were to be wrapped around me. Also were the slaves selected that were to be killed that my soul might have company. There were seven of these slaves, for my father was rich and powerful, and it was fit that I, his son, should have proper burial. These slaves we had got in war from the Mukumuks, who live down the Yukon. On the morrow, Skolka, the shaman, would kill them, one by one, so that their souls should go questing with mine through the Unknown. Among other things, they would carry my canoe till we came to the big river, rapid with bad water. And there being no room, and their work being done, they would come no farther, but remain and howl forever in the dark and endless forest.

"And as I looked on my fine warm clothes, and my blankets and weapons of war, and as I thought of the seven slaves to be slain, I felt proud of my burial and knew that I must be the envy of many men. And all the while my father, the Otter, sat silent and black. And all that day and night the people sang my death-song and beat the drums, till it seemed that I had surely died a thousand times.

"But in the morning my father arose and made talk. He had been a fighting man all his days, he said, as the people knew. Also the people knew that it were a greater honor to die fighting in battle than on the soft skins by the fire. And since I was to die anyway, it were well that I should go against the Mukumuks and be slain. Thus would I attain honor and chieftainship in the final abode of the dead, and thus would honor remain to my father, who was the Otter. Wherefore he gave command that a war party be made ready to go down the river. And that when we came upon the Mukumuks I was to go forth alone from my party, giving semblance of battle, and so be slain."

"Nay, but hear, O White Man!" cried Mutsak, unable longer to contain himself. "Skolka, the shaman, whispered long that night in the ear of the Otter, and it was his doing that Lone Chief should be sent forth to die. For the Otter being old, and Lone Chief the last of his sons, Skolka had it in mind to become chief himself over the people. And when the people had made great noise for a day and a night and Lone Chief was yet alive, Skolka was become afraid that he would not die. So it was the counsel of Skolka, with fine words of honor and deeds, that spoke through the mouth of the Otter.

"Ay," replied Lone Chief. "Well did I know it was the doing of Skolka, but I was unmindful, being very sick. I had no heart for anger, nor belly for stout words, and I cared little, one way or the other, only I cared to die and have done with it all. So, O White Man, the war party was made ready. No tried fighters were there, nor elders, crafty and wise—naught but five score of young men who had seen little fighting. And all the village gathered together above the bank of the river to see us depart. And we departed amid great rejoicing and the singing of my praises. Even thou, O White Man, wouldst rejoice at sight of a young man going forth to battle, even though doomed to die.

"So we went forth, the five score young men, and Mutsak came also, for he was likewise young and untried. And by command of my father, the Otter, my canoe was lashed on either side to the canoe of Mutsak and the canoe of Kannakut. Thus was my strength saved me from the work of the paddles, so that, for all of my sickness, I might make a brave show at the end. And thus we went down the river.

"Nor will I weary thee with the tale of the journey, which was not long. And not far above the village of the Mukumuks we came upon two of their fighting men in canoes, that fled at the sight of us. And then, according to the command of my father, my canoe was cast loose and I was left to drift down all alone. Also, according to his command, were the young men to see me die, so that they might return and tell the manner of my death. Upon this, my father, the Otter, and Skolka, the shaman, had been very clear, with stern promises of punishment in case they were not obeyed.

"I dipped my paddle and shouted words of scorn after the fleeing warriors. And the vile things I shouted made them turn their heads in anger, when they beheld that the young men held back, and that I came on alone. Whereupon, when they had made a safe distance, the two warriors drew their canoes somewhat apart and waited side by side for me to come between. And I came between, spear in hand, and singing the war-song of my people. Each flung a spear, but I bent my body, and the spears whistled over me, and I was unhurt. Then, and we were all together, we three, I cast my spear at the one to the right, and it drove into his throat and he pitched backward into the water.

"Great was my surprise thereat, for I had killed a man. I turned to the one on the left and drove strong with my paddle, to meet Death face to face; but the man's second spear, which was his last, but bit into the flesh of my shoulder. Then was I upon him, making no cast, but pressing the point into his breast and working it through him with both my hands. And while I worked, pressing with all my strength, he smote me upon my head, once and twice, with the broad of his paddle.

"Even as the point of the spear sprang out beyond his back, he smote me upon the head. There was a flash, as of bright light, and inside my head I felt something give, with a snap—just like that, with a snap. And the weight that pressed above my eyes so long was lifted, and the band that bound my brows so tight was broken. And a great gladness came upon me, and my heart sang with joy. 

"This be death, I thought; wherefore I thought that death was very good. And then I saw the two empty canoes, and I knew that I was not dead, but well again. The blows of the man upon my head had made me well. I knew that I had killed, and the taste of the blood made me fierce, and I drove my paddle into the breast of the Yukon and urged my canoe toward the village of the Mukumuks. The young men behind me gave a great cry. I looked over my shoulder and saw the water foaming white from their paddles—"

"Ay, it foamed white from our paddles," said Mutsak. "For we remembered the command of the Otter, and of Skolka, that we behold with our own eyes the manner of Lone Chief's death. A young man of the Mukumuks, on his way to a salmon trap, beheld the coming of Lone Chief, and of the five score men behind him. And the young man fled in his canoe, straight for the village, that alarm might be given and preparation made. But Lone Chief hurried after him, and we hurried after Lone Chief to behold the manner of his death. Only, in the face of the village, as the young man leaped to the shore, Lone Chief rose up in his canoe and made a mighty cast. And the spear entered the body of the young man above the hips, and the young man fell upon his face.

"Whereupon Lone Chief leaped up the bank war-club in hand and a great war-cry on his lips, and dashed into the village. The first man he met was Itwilie, chief over the Mukumuks, and him Lone Chief smote upon the head with his war-club, so that he fell dead upon the ground. And for fear we might not behold the manner of his death, we too, the five score young men, leaped to the shore and followed Lone Chief into the village. Only the Mukumuks did not understand, and thought we had come to fight; so their bow-thongs sang and their arrows whistled among us. Whereat we forgot our errand, and fell upon them with our spears and clubs; and they being unprepared, there was great slaughter—"

"With my own hands I slew their shaman," proclaimed Lone Chief, his withered face a-work with memory of that old-time day. "With my own hands I slew him, who was a greater shaman than Skolka, our own shaman. And each time I faced a man, I thought, 'Now cometh Death; and each time I slew the man, and Death came not. It seemed the breath of life was strong in my nostrils and I could not die—"

"And we followed Lone Chief the length of the village and back again," continued Mutsak. "Like a pack of wolves we followed him, back and forth, and here and there, till there were no more Mukumuks left to fight. Then we gathered together five score men-slaves, and double as many women, and countless children, and we set fire and burned all the houses and lodges, and departed. And that was the last of the Mukumuks."

"And that was the last of the Mukumuks," Lone Chief repeated exultantly. "And when we came to our own village, the people were amazed at our burden of wealth and slaves, and in that I was still alive they were more amazed. And my father, the Otter, came trembling with gladness at the things I had done. For he was an old man, and I the last of his sons. And all the tried fighting men came, and the crafty and wise, till all the people were gathered together. And then I arose, and with a voice like thunder, commanded Skolka, the shaman, to stand forth—"

"Ay, O White Man," exclaimed Mutsak. "With a voice like thunder, that made the people shake at the knees and become afraid."

"And when Skolka had stood forth," Lone Chief went on, "I said that I was not minded to die. Also, I said it were not well that disappointment come to the evil spirits that wait beyond the grave. Wherefore I deemed it fit that the soul of Skolka fare forth into the Unknown, where doubtless it would howl forever in the dark and endless forest. And then I slew him, as he stood there, in the face of all the people. Even I, Lone Chief, with my own hands, slew Skolka, the shaman, in the face of all the people. And when a murmuring arose, I cried aloud—"

"With a voice like thunder," prompted Mutsak.

"Ay, with a voice like thunder I cried aloud: 'Behold, O ye people! I am Lone Chief, slayer of Skolka, the false shaman! Alone among men, have I passed down through the gateway of Death and returned again. Mine eyes have looked upon the unseen things. Mine ears have heard the unspoken words. Greater am I than Skolka, the shaman. Greater than all shamans am I. Likewise am I a greater chief than my father, the Otter. All his days did he fight with the Mukumuks, and lo, in one day have I destroyed them all. As with the breathing of a breath have I destroyed them. Wherefore, my father, the Otter, being old, and Skolka, the shaman, being dead, I shall be both chief and shaman. Henceforth shall I be both chief and shaman to you, O my people. And if any man dispute my word, let that man stand forth!'

"I waited, but no man stood forth. Then I cried: 'Hoh! I have tasted blood! Now bring meat, for I am hungry. Break open the caches, tear down the fish-racks, and let the feast be big. Let there be merriment, and songs, not of burial, but marriage. And last of all, let the girl Kasaan be brought. The girl Kasaan, who is to be the mother of the children of Lone Chief!'

"And at my words, and because that he was very old, my father, the Otter, wept like a woman, and put his arms about my knees. And from that day I was both chief and shaman. And great honor was mine, and all men yielded me obedience."

"Until the steamboat came," Mutsak prompted.

"Ay," said Lone Chief. "Until the steamboat came."

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7. THE ONE THOUSAND DOZEN 

David Rasmunsen was a hustler, and, like many a greater man, a man of the one idea.  Wherefore, when the clarion call of the North rang on his ear, he conceived an adventure in eggs and bent all his energy to its achievement.  He figured briefly and to the point, and the adventure became iridescent-hued, splendid.  That eggs would sell at Dawson for five dollars a dozen was a safe working premise.  Whence it was incontrovertible that one thousand dozen would bring, in the Golden Metropolis, five thousand dollars.

On the other hand, expense was to be considered, and he considered it well, for he was a careful man, keenly practical, with a hard head and a heart that imagination never warmed.  At fifteen cents a dozen, the initial cost of his thousand dozen would be one hundred and fifty dollars, a mere bagatelle in face of the enormous profit.  And suppose, just suppose, to be wildly extravagant for once, that transportation for himself and eggs should run up eight hundred and fifty more; he would still have four thousand clear cash and clean when the last egg was disposed of and the last dust had rippled into his sack.

“You see, Alma,”—he figured it over with his wife, the cosy dining-room submerged in a sea of maps, government surveys, guide-books, and Alaskan itineraries,—“you see, expenses don’t really begin till you make Dyea—fifty dollars’ll cover it with a first-class passage thrown in.  Now from Dyea to Lake Linderman, Indian packers take your goods over for twelve cents a pound, twelve dollars a hundred, or one hundred and twenty dollars a thousand.  Say I have fifteen hundred pounds, it’ll cost one hundred and eighty dollars—call it two hundred and be safe.  I am creditably informed by a Klondiker just come out that I can buy a boat for three hundred.  But the same man says I’m sure to get a couple of passengers for one hundred and fifty each, which will give me the boat for nothing, and, further, they can help me manage it.  And . . . that’s all; I put my eggs ashore from the boat at Dawson.  Now let me see how much is that?”

“Fifty dollars from San Francisco to Dyea, two hundred from Dyea to Linderman, passengers pay for the boat—two hundred and fifty all told,” she summed up swiftly.

“And a hundred for my clothes and personal outfit,” he went on happily; “that leaves a margin of five hundred for emergencies.  And what possible emergencies can arise?”

Alma shrugged her shoulders and elevated her brows.  If that vast Northland was capable of swallowing up a man and a thousand dozen eggs, surely there was room and to spare for whatever else he might happen to possess.  So she thought, but she said nothing.  She knew David Rasmunsen too well to say anything.

“Doubling the time because of chance delays, I should make the trip in two months.  Think of it, Alma!  Four thousand in two months!  Beats the paltry hundred a month I’m getting now.  Why, we’ll build further out where we’ll have more space, gas in every room, and a view, and the rent of the cottage’ll pay taxes, insurance, and water, and leave something over.  And then there’s always the chance of my striking it and coming out a millionaire.  Now tell me, Alma, don’t you think I’m very moderate?”

And Alma could hardly think otherwise.  Besides, had not her own cousin,—though a remote and distant one to be sure, the black sheep, the harum-scarum, the ne’er-do-well,—had not he come down out of that weird North country with a hundred thousand in yellow dust, to say nothing of a half-ownership in the hole from which it came?

David Rasmunsen’s grocer was surprised when he found him weighing eggs in the scales at the end of the counter, and Rasmunsen himself was more surprised when he found that a dozen eggs weighed a pound and a half—fifteen hundred pounds for his thousand dozen!  There would be no weight left for his clothes, blankets, and cooking utensils, to say nothing of the grub he must necessarily consume by the way.  His calculations were all thrown out, and he was just proceeding to recast them when he hit upon the idea of weighing small eggs.  “For whether they be large or small, a dozen eggs is a dozen eggs,” he observed sagely to himself; and a dozen small ones he found to weigh but a pound and a quarter.  Thereat the city of San Francisco was overrun by anxious-eyed emissaries, and commission houses and dairy associations were startled by a sudden demand for eggs running not more than twenty ounces to the dozen.

Rasmunsen mortgaged the little cottage for a thousand dollars, arranged for his wife to make a prolonged stay among her own people, threw up his job, and started North.  To keep within his schedule he compromised on a second-class passage, which, because of the rush, was worse than steerage; and in the late summer, a pale and wabbly man, he disembarked with his eggs on the Dyea beach.  But it did not take him long to recover his land legs and appetite.  His first interview with the Chilkoot packers straightened him up and stiffened his backbone.  Forty cents a pound they demanded for the twenty-eight-mile portage, and while he caught his breath and swallowed, the price went up to forty-three.  Fifteen husky Indians put the straps on his packs at forty-five, but took them off at an offer of forty-seven from a Skaguay Croesus in dirty shirt and ragged overalls who had lost his horses on the White Pass trail and was now making a last desperate drive at the country by way of Chilkoot.

But Rasmunsen was clean grit, and at fifty cents found takers, who, two days later, set his eggs down intact at Linderman.  But fifty cents a pound is a thousand dollars a ton, and his fifteen hundred pounds had exhausted his emergency fund and left him stranded at the Tantalus point where each day he saw the fresh-whipsawed boats departing for Dawson.  Further, a great anxiety brooded over the camp where the boats were built.  Men worked frantically, early and late, at the height of their endurance, caulking, nailing, and pitching in a frenzy of haste for which adequate explanation was not far to seek.  Each day the snow-line crept farther down the bleak, rock-shouldered peaks, and gale followed gale, with sleet and slush and snow, and in the eddies and quiet places young ice formed and thickened through the fleeting hours.  And each morn, toil-stiffened men turned wan faces across the lake to see if the freeze-up had come.  For the freeze-up heralded the death of their hope—the hope that they would be floating down the swift river ere navigation closed on the chain of lakes. 

To harrow Rasmunsen’s soul further, he discovered three competitors in the egg business.  It was true that one, a little German, had gone broke and was himself forlornly back-tripping the last pack of the portage; but the other two had boats nearly completed, and were daily supplicating the god of merchants and traders to stay the iron hand of winter for just another day.  But the iron hand closed down over the land.  Men were being frozen in the blizzard which swept Chilkoot, and Rasmunsen frosted his toes ere he was aware.  He found a chance to go passenger with his freight in a boat just shoving off through the rubble, but two hundred hard cash, was required, and he had no money.

“Ay tank you yust wait one leedle w’ile,” said the Swedish boat-builder, who had struck his Klondike right there and was wise enough to know it—“one leedle w’ile und I make you a tam fine skiff boat, sure Pete.”

With this unpledged word to go on, Rasmunsen hit the back trail to Crater Lake, where he fell in with two press correspondents whose tangled baggage was strewn from Stone House, over across the Pass, and as far as Happy Camp.

“Yes,” he said with consequence.  “I’ve a thousand dozen eggs at Linderman, and my boat’s just about got the last seam caulked.  Consider myself in luck to get it.  Boats are at a premium, you know, and none to be had.”

Whereupon and almost with bodily violence the correspondents clamoured to go with him, fluttered greenbacks before his eyes, and spilled yellow twenties from hand to hand.  He could not hear of it, but they over-persuaded him, and he reluctantly consented to take them at three hundred apiece.  Also they pressed upon him the passage money in advance.  And while they wrote to their respective journals concerning the Good Samaritan with the thousand dozen eggs, the Good Samaritan was hurrying back to the Swede at Linderman.

“Here, you!  Gimme that boat!” was his salutation, his hand jingling the correspondents’ gold pieces and his eyes hungrily bent upon the finished craft.

The Swede regarded him stolidly and shook his head.

“How much is the other fellow paying?  Three hundred?  Well, here’s four.  Take it.”

He tried to press it upon him, but the man backed away.

“Ay tank not.  Ay say him get der skiff boat.  You yust wait—”

“Here’s six hundred.  Last call.  Take it or leave it.  Tell ’m it’s a mistake.”

The Swede wavered.  “Ay tank yes,” he finally said, and the last Rasmunsen saw of him his vocabulary was going to wreck in a vain effort to explain the mistake to the other fellows.

The German slipped and broke his ankle on the steep hogback above Deep Lake, sold out his stock for a dollar a dozen, and with the proceeds hired Indian packers to carry him back to Dyea.  But on the morning Rasmunsen shoved off with his correspondents, his two rivals followed suit.

“How many you got?” one of them, a lean little New Englander, called out.

“One thousand dozen,” Rasmunsen answered proudly.

“Huh!  I’ll go you even stakes I beat you in with my eight hundred.”

The correspondents offered to lend him the money; but Rasmunsen declined, and the Yankee closed with the remaining rival, a brawny son of the sea and sailor of ships and things, who promised to show them all a wrinkle or two when it came to cracking on.  And crack on he did, with a large tarpaulin square-sail which pressed the bow half under at every jump.  He was the first to run out of Linderman, but, disdaining the portage, piled his loaded boat on the rocks in the boiling rapids.  Rasmunsen and the Yankee, who likewise had two passengers, portaged across on their backs and then lined their empty boats down through the bad water to Bennett.

Bennett was a twenty-five-mile lake, narrow and deep, a funnel between the mountains through which storms ever romped.  Rasmunsen camped on the sand-pit at its head, where were many men and boats bound north in the teeth of the Arctic winter.  He awoke in the morning to find a piping gale from the south, which caught the chill from the whited peaks and glacial valleys and blew as cold as north wind ever blew.  But it was fair, and he also found the Yankee staggering past the first bold headland with all sail set.  Boat after boat was getting under way, and the correspondents fell to with enthusiasm.

“We’ll catch him before Cariboo Crossing,” they assured Rasmunsen, as they ran up the sail and the Alma took the first icy spray over her bow.

Now Rasmunsen all his life had been prone to cowardice on water, but he clung to the kicking steering-oar with set face and determined jaw.  His thousand dozen were there in the boat before his eyes, safely secured beneath the correspondents’ baggage, and somehow, before his eyes were the little cottage and the mortgage for a thousand dollars.

It was bitter cold.  Now and again he hauled in the steering-sweep and put out a fresh one while his passengers chopped the ice from the blade.  Wherever the spray struck, it turned instantly to frost, and the dipping boom of the spritsail was quickly fringed with icicles.  The Alma strained and hammered through the big seas till the seams and butts began to spread, but in lieu of bailing the correspondents chopped ice and flung it overboard.  There was no let-up.  The mad race with winter was on, and the boats tore along in a desperate string.

“W-w-we can’t stop to save our souls!” one of the correspondents chattered, from cold, not fright.

“That’s right!  Keep her down the middle, old man!” the other encouraged.

Rasmunsen replied with an idiotic grin.  The iron-bound shores were in a lather of foam, and even down the middle the only hope was to keep running away from the big seas.  To lower sail was to be overtaken and swamped.  Time and again they passed boats pounding among the rocks, and once they saw one on the edge of the breakers about to strike.  A little craft behind them, with two men, jibed over and turned bottom up.

“W-w-watch out, old man,” cried he of the chattering teeth.

Rasmunsen grinned and tightened his aching grip on the sweep.  Scores of times had the send of the sea caught the big square stern of the Alma and thrown her off from dead before it till the after leach of the spritsail fluttered hollowly, and each time, and only with all his strength, had he forced her back.  His grin by then had become fixed, and it disturbed the correspondents to look at him. 

They roared down past an isolated rock a hundred yards from shore.  From its wave-drenched top a man shrieked wildly, for the instant cutting the storm with his voice.  But the next instant the Alma was by, and the rock growing a black speck in the troubled froth.

“That settles the Yankee!  Where’s the sailor?” shouted one of his passengers.

Rasmunsen shot a glance over his shoulder at a black square-sail.  He had seen it leap up out of the grey to windward, and for an hour, off and on, had been watching it grow.  The sailor had evidently repaired damages and was making up for lost time.

“Look at him come!”

Both passengers stopped chopping ice to watch.  Twenty miles of Bennett were behind them—room and to spare for the sea to toss up its mountains toward the sky.  Sinking and soaring like a storm-god, the sailor drove by them.  The huge sail seemed to grip the boat from the crests of the waves, to tear it bodily out of the water, and fling it crashing and smothering down into the yawning troughs.

“The sea’ll never catch him!”

“But he’ll r-r-run her nose under!”

Even as they spoke, the black tarpaulin swooped from sight behind a big comber.  The next wave rolled over the spot, and the next, but the boat did not reappear.  The Alma rushed by the place.  A little riffraff of oats and boxes was seen.  An arm thrust up and a shaggy head broke surface a score of yards away.

For a time there was silence.  As the end of the lake came in sight, the waves began to leap aboard with such steady recurrence that the correspondents no longer chopped ice but flung the water out with buckets.  Even this would not do, and, after a shouted conference with Rasmunsen, they attacked the baggage.  Flour, bacon, beans, blankets, cooking-stove, ropes, odds and ends, everything they could get hands on, flew overboard.  The boat acknowledged it at once, taking less water and rising more buoyantly.

“That’ll do!” Rasmunsen called sternly, as they applied themselves to the top layer of eggs.

“The h-hell it will!” answered the shivering one, savagely.  With the exception of their notes, films, and cameras, they had sacrificed their outfit.  He bent over, laid hold of an egg-box, and began to worry it out from under the lashing.

“Drop it!  Drop it, I say!”

Rasmunsen had managed to draw his revolver, and with the crook of his arm over the sweep head, was taking aim.  The correspondent stood up on the thwart, balancing back and forth, his face twisted with menace and speechless anger.

“My God!”

So cried his brother correspondent, hurling himself, face downward, into the bottom of the boat.  The Alma, under the divided attention of Rasmunsen, had been caught by a great mass of water and whirled around.  The after leach hollowed, the sail emptied and jibed, and the boom, sweeping with terrific force across the boat, carried the angry correspondent overboard with a broken back.  Mast and sail had gone over the side as well.  A drenching sea followed, as the boat lost headway, and Rasmunsen sprang to the bailing bucket.

Several boats hurtled past them in the next half-hour,—small boats, boats of their own size, boats afraid, unable to do aught but run madly on.  Then a ten-ton barge, at imminent risk of destruction, lowered sail to windward and lumbered down upon them.

“Keep off!  Keep off!” Rasmunsen screamed.

But his low gunwale ground against the heavy craft, and the remaining correspondent clambered aboard.  Rasmunsen was over the eggs like a cat and in the bow of the Alma, striving with numb fingers to bend the hauling-lines together.

“Come on!” a red-whiskered man yelled at him.

“I’ve a thousand dozen eggs here,” he shouted back.  “Gimme a tow!  I’ll pay you!”

“Come on!” they howled in chorus.

A big whitecap broke just beyond, washing over the barge and leaving the Alma half swamped.  The men cast off, cursing him as they ran up their sail.  Rasmunsen cursed back and fell to bailing.  The mast and sail, like a sea anchor, still fast by the halyards, held the boat head on to wind and sea and gave him a chance to fight the water out.

Three hours later, numbed, exhausted, blathering like a lunatic, but still bailing, he went ashore on an ice-strewn beach near Cariboo Crossing.  Two men, a government courier and a half-breed voyageur, dragged him out of the surf, saved his cargo, and beached the Alma.  They were paddling out of the country in a Peterborough, and gave him shelter for the night in their storm-bound camp.  Next morning they departed, but he elected to stay by his eggs.  And thereafter the name and fame of the man with the thousand dozen eggs began to spread through the land.  Gold-seekers who made in before the freeze-up carried the news of his coming.  Grizzled old-timers of Forty Mile and Circle City, sour doughs with leathern jaws and bean-calloused stomachs, called up dream memories of chickens and green things at mention of his name.  Dyea and Skaguay took an interest in his being, and questioned his progress from every man who came over the passes, while Dawson—golden, omeletless Dawson—fretted and worried, and way-laid every chance arrival for word of him.

But of this Rasmunsen knew nothing.  The day after the wreck he patched up the Alma and pulled out.  A cruel east wind blew in his teeth from Tagish, but he got the oars over the side and bucked manfully into it, though half the time he was drifting backward and chopping ice from the blades.  According to the custom of the country, he was driven ashore at Windy Arm; three times on Tagish saw him swamped and beached; and Lake Marsh held him at the freeze-up.  The Alma was crushed in the jamming of the floes, but the eggs were intact.  These he back-tripped two miles across the ice to the shore, where he built a cache, which stood for years after and was pointed out by men who knew. 

Half a thousand frozen miles stretched between him and Dawson, and the waterway was closed.  But Rasmunsen, with a peculiar tense look in his face, struck back up the lakes on foot.  What he suffered on that lone trip, with nought but a single blanket, an axe, and a handful of beans, is not given to ordinary mortals to know.  Only the Arctic adventurer may understand.  Suffice that he was caught in a blizzard on Chilkoot and left two of his toes with the surgeon at Sheep Camp.  Yet he stood on his feet and washed dishes in the scullery of the Pawona to the Puget Sound, and from there passed coal on a P. S. boat to San Francisco.

It was a haggard, unkempt man who limped across the shining office floor to raise a second mortgage from the bank people.  His hollow cheeks betrayed themselves through the scraggy beard, and his eyes seemed to have retired into deep caverns where they burned with cold fires.  His hands were grained from exposure and hard work, and the nails were rimmed with tight-packed dirt and coal-dust.  He spoke vaguely of eggs and ice-packs, winds and tides; but when they declined to let him have more than a second thousand, his talk became incoherent, concerning itself chiefly with the price of dogs and dog-food, and such things as snowshoes and moccasins and winter trails.  They let him have fifteen hundred, which was more than the cottage warranted, and breathed easier when he scrawled his signature and passed out the door.

Two weeks later he went over Chilkoot with three dog sleds of five dogs each.  One team he drove, the two Indians with him driving the others.  At Lake Marsh they broke out the cache and loaded up.  But there was no trail.  He was the first in over the ice, and to him fell the task of packing the snow and hammering away through the rough river jams.  Behind him he often observed a camp-fire smoke trickling thinly up through the quiet air, and he wondered why the people did not overtake him.  For he was a stranger to the land and did not understand.  Nor could he understand his Indians when they tried to explain.  This they conceived to be a hardship, but when they balked and refused to break camp of mornings, he drove them to their work at pistol point.

When he slipped through an ice bridge near the White Horse and froze his foot, tender yet and oversensitive from the previous freezing, the Indians looked for him to lie up.  But he sacrificed a blanket, and, with his foot incased in an enormous moccasin, big as a water-bucket, continued to take his regular turn with the front sled.  Here was the cruellest work, and they respected him, though on the side they rapped their foreheads with their knuckles and significantly shook their heads.  One night they tried to run away, but the zip-zip of his bullets in the snow brought them back, snarling but convinced.  Whereupon, being only savage Chilkat men, they put their heads together to kill him; but he slept like a cat, and, waking or sleeping, the chance never came.  Often they tried to tell him the import of the smoke wreath in the rear, but he could not comprehend and grew suspicious of them.  And when they sulked or shirked, he was quick to let drive at them between the eyes, and quick to cool their heated souls with sight of his ready revolver.

And so it went—with mutinous men, wild dogs, and a trail that broke the heart.  He fought the men to stay with him, fought the dogs to keep them away from the eggs, fought the ice, the cold, and the pain of his foot, which would not heal.  As fast as the young tissue renewed, it was bitten and scared by the frost, so that a running sore developed, into which he could almost shove his fist.  In the mornings, when he first put his weight upon it, his head went dizzy, and he was near to fainting from the pain; but later on in the day it usually grew numb, to recommence when he crawled into his blankets and tried to sleep.  Yet he, who had been a clerk and sat at a desk all his days, toiled till the Indians were exhausted, and even out-worked the dogs.  How hard he worked, how much he suffered, he did not know.  Being a man of the one idea, now that the idea had come, it mastered him.  In the foreground of his consciousness was Dawson, in the background his thousand dozen eggs, and midway between the two his ego fluttered, striving always to draw them together to a glittering golden point.  This golden point was the five thousand dollars, the consummation of the idea and the point of departure for whatever new idea might present itself.  For the rest, he was a mere automaton.  He was unaware of other things, seeing them as through a glass darkly, and giving them no thought.  The work of his hands he did with machine-like wisdom; likewise the work of his head.  So the look on his face grew very tense, till even the Indians were afraid of it, and marvelled at the strange white man who had made them slaves and forced them to toil with such foolishness.

Then came a snap on Lake Le Barge, when the cold of outer space smote the tip of the planet, and the force ranged sixty and odd degrees below zero.  Here, labouring with open mouth that he might breathe more freely, he chilled his lungs, and for the rest of the trip he was troubled with a dry, hacking cough, especially irritable in smoke of camp or under stress of undue exertion.  On the Thirty Mile river he found much open water, spanned by precarious ice bridges and fringed with narrow rim ice, tricky and uncertain.  The rim ice was impossible to reckon on, and he dared it without reckoning, falling back on his revolver when his drivers demurred.  But on the ice bridges, covered with snow though they were, precautions could be taken.  These they crossed on their snowshoes, with long poles, held crosswise in their hands, to which to cling in case of accident.  Once over, the dogs were called to follow.  And on such a bridge, where the absence of the centre ice was masked by the snow, one of the Indians met his end.  He went through as quickly and neatly as a knife through thin cream, and the current swept him from view down under the stream ice.

That night his mate fled away through the pale moonlight, Rasmunsen futilely puncturing the silence with his revolver—a thing that he handled with more celerity than cleverness.  Thirty-six hours later the Indian made a police camp on the Big Salmon.

“Um—um—um funny mans—what you call?—top um head all loose,” the interpreter explained to the puzzled captain.  “Eh?  Yep, clazy, much clazy mans.  Eggs, eggs, all a time eggs—savvy?  Come bime-by.”

It was several days before Rasmunsen arrived, the three sleds lashed together, and all the dogs in a single team.  It was awkward, and where the going was bad he was compelled to back-trip it sled by sled, though he managed most of the time, through herculean efforts, to bring all along on the one haul.  He did not seem moved when the captain of police told him his man was hitting the high places for Dawson, and was by that time, probably, half-way between Selkirk and Stewart.  Nor did he appear interested when informed that the police had broken the trail as far as Pelly; for he had attained to a fatalistic acceptance of all natural dispensations, good or ill.  But when they told him that Dawson was in the bitter clutch of famine, he smiled, threw the harness on his dogs, and pulled out.

But it was at his next halt that the mystery of the smoke was explained.  With the word at Big Salmon that the trail was broken to Pelly, there was no longer any need for the smoke wreath to linger in his wake; and Rasmunsen, crouching over lonely fire, saw a motley string of sleds go by.  First came the courier and the half-breed who had hauled him out from Bennett; then mail-carriers for Circle City, two sleds of them, and a mixed following of ingoing Klondikers.  Dogs and men were fresh and fat, while Rasmunsen and his brutes were jaded and worn down to the skin and bone.  They of the smoke wreath had travelled one day in three, resting and reserving their strength for the dash to come when broken trail was met with; while each day he had plunged and floundered forward, breaking the spirit of his dogs and robbing them of their mettle.

As for himself, he was unbreakable.  They thanked him kindly for his efforts in their behalf, those fat, fresh men,—thanked him kindly, with broad grins and ribald laughter; and now, when he understood, he made no answer.  Nor did he cherish silent bitterness.  It was immaterial.  The idea—the fact behind the idea—was not changed.  Here he was and his thousand dozen; there was Dawson; the problem was unaltered.

At the Little Salmon, being short of dog food, the dogs got into his grub, and from there to Selkirk he lived on beans—coarse, brown beans, big beans, grossly nutritive, which griped his stomach and doubled him up at two-hour intervals.  But the Factor at Selkirk had a notice on the door of the Post to the effect that no steamer had been up the Yukon for two years, and in consequence grub was beyond price.  He offered to swap flour, however, at the rate of a cupful of each egg, but Rasmunsen shook his head and hit the trail.  Below the Post he managed to buy frozen horse hide for the dogs, the horses having been slain by the Chilkat cattle men, and the scraps and offal preserved by the Indians.  He tackled the hide himself, but the hair worked into the bean sores of his mouth, and was beyond endurance.

Here at Selkirk he met the forerunners of the hungry exodus of Dawson, and from there on they crept over the trail, a dismal throng.  “No grub!” was the song they sang.  “No grub, and had to go.”  “Everybody holding candles for a rise in the spring.”  “Flour dollar ’n a half a pound, and no sellers.”

“Eggs?” one of them answered.  “Dollar apiece, but there ain’t none.”

Rasmunsen made a rapid calculation.  “Twelve thousand dollars,” he said aloud.

“Hey?” the man asked.

“Nothing,” he answered, and mushed the dogs along.

When he arrived at Stewart River, seventy from Dawson, five of his dogs were gone, and the remainder were falling in the traces.  He, also, was in the traces, hauling with what little strength was left in him.  Even then he was barely crawling along ten miles a day.  His cheek-bones and nose, frost-bitten again and again, were turned bloody-black and hideous.  The thumb, which was separated from the fingers by the gee-pole, had likewise been nipped and gave him great pain.  The monstrous moccasin still incased his foot, and strange pains were beginning to rack the leg.  At Sixty Mile, the last beans, which he had been rationing for some time, were finished; yet he steadfastly refused to touch the eggs.  He could not reconcile his mind to the legitimacy of it, and staggered and fell along the way to Indian River.  Here a fresh-killed moose and an open-handed old-timer gave him and his dogs new strength, and at Ainslie’s he felt repaid for it all when a stampede, ripe from Dawson in five hours, was sure he could get a dollar and a quarter for every egg he possessed.

He came up the steep bank by the Dawson barracks with fluttering heart and shaking knees.  The dogs were so weak that he was forced to rest them, and, waiting, he leaned limply against the gee-pole.  A man, an eminently decorous-looking man, came sauntering by in a great bearskin coat.  He glanced at Rasmunsen curiously, then stopped and ran a speculative eye over the dogs and the three lashed sleds.

“What you got?” he asked.

“Eggs,” Rasmunsen answered huskily, hardly able to pitch his voice above a whisper.

“Eggs!  Whoopee!  Whoopee!”  He sprang up into the air, gyrated madly, and finished with half-a-dozen war steps.  “You don’t say—all of ’em?”

“All of ’em.”

“Say, you must be the Egg Man.”  He walked around and viewed Rasmunsen from the other side.  “Come, now, ain’t you the Egg Man?”

Rasmunsen didn’t know, but supposed he was, and the man sobered down a bit.

“What d’ye expect to get for ’em?” he asked cautiously.

Rasmunsen became audacious. “Dollar ’n a half,” he said.

“Done!” the man came back promptly.  “Gimme a dozen.”

“I—I mean a dollar ’n a half apiece,” Rasmunsen hesitatingly explained.

“Sure.  I heard you.  Make it two dozen.  Here’s the dust.”

The man pulled out a healthy gold sack the size of a small sausage and knocked it negligently against the gee-pole.  Rasmunsen felt a strange trembling in the pit of his stomach, a tickling of the nostrils, and an almost overwhelming desire to sit down and cry.  But a curious, wide-eyed crowd was beginning to collect, and man after man was calling out for eggs.  He was without scales, but the man with the bearskin coat fetched a pair and obligingly weighed in the dust while Rasmunsen passed out the goods.  Soon there was a pushing and shoving and shouldering, and a great clamour.  Everybody wanted to buy and to be served first.  And as the excitement grew, Rasmunsen cooled down.  This would never do.  There must be something behind the fact of their buying so eagerly.  It would be wiser if he rested first and sized up the market.  Perhaps eggs were worth two dollars apiece.  Anyway, whenever he wished to sell, he was sure of a dollar and a half.  “Stop!” he cried, when a couple of hundred had been sold.  “No more now.  I’m played out.  I’ve got to get a cabin, and then you can come and see me.” 

A groan went up at this, but the man with the bearskin coat approved.  Twenty-four of the frozen eggs went rattling in his capacious pockets, and he didn’t care whether the rest of the town ate or not.  Besides, he could see Rasmunsen was on his last legs.

“There’s a cabin right around the second corner from the Monte Carlo,” he told him—“the one with the sody-bottle window.  It ain’t mine, but I’ve got charge of it.  Rents for ten a day and cheap for the money.  You move right in, and I’ll see you later.  Don’t forget the sody-bottle window.”

“Tra-la-loo!” he called back a moment later.  “I’m goin’ up the hill to eat eggs and dream of home.”

On his way to the cabin, Rasmunsen recollected he was hungry and bought a small supply of provisions at the N. A. T. & T. store—also a beefsteak at the butcher shop and dried salmon for the dogs.  He found the cabin without difficulty, and left the dogs in the harness while he started the fire and got the coffee under way.

“A dollar ’n a half apiece—one thousand dozen—eighteen thousand dollars!” he kept muttering it to himself, over and over, as he went about his work.

As he flopped the steak into the frying-pan the door opened.  He turned.  It was the man with the bearskin coat.  He seemed to come in with determination, as though bound on some explicit errand, but as he looked at Rasmunsen an expression of perplexity came into his face.

“I say—now I say—” he began, then halted.

Rasmunsen wondered if he wanted the rent.

“I say, damn it, you know, them eggs is bad.”

Rasmunsen staggered.  He felt as though some one had struck him an astounding blow between the eyes.  The walls of the cabin reeled and tilted up.  He put out his hand to steady himself and rested it on the stove.  The sharp pain and the smell of the burning flesh brought him back to himself.

“I see,” he said slowly, fumbling in his pocket for the sack.  “You want your money back.”

“It ain’t the money,” the man said, “but hain’t you got any eggs—good?”

Rasmunsen shook his head.  “You’d better take the money.”

But the man refused and backed away.  “I’ll come back,” he said, “when you’ve taken stock, and get what’s comin’.”

Rasmunsen rolled the chopping-block into the cabin and carried in the eggs.  He went about it quite calmly.  He took up the hand-axe, and, one by one, chopped the eggs in half.  These halves he examined carefully and let fall to the floor.  At first he sampled from the different cases, then deliberately emptied one case at a time.  The heap on the floor grew larger.  The coffee boiled over and the smoke of the burning beefsteak filled the cabin.  He chopped steadfastly and monotonously till the last case was finished.

Somebody knocked at the door, knocked again, and let himself in.

“What a mess!” he remarked, as he paused and surveyed the scene.

The severed eggs were beginning to thaw in the heat of the stove, and a miserable odour was growing stronger.

“Must a-happened on the steamer,” he suggested.

Rasmunsen looked at him long and blankly.

“I’m Murray, Big Jim Murray, everybody knows me,” the man volunteered.  “I’m just hearin’ your eggs is rotten, and I’m offerin’ you two hundred for the batch.  They ain’t good as salmon, but still they’re fair scoffin’s for dogs.”

Rasmunsen seemed turned to stone.  He did not move.  “You go to hell,” he said passionlessly.

“Now just consider.  I pride myself it’s a decent price for a mess like that, and it’s better ’n nothin’.  Two hundred.  What you say?”

“You go to hell,” Rasmunsen repeated softly, “and get out of here.”

Murray gaped with a great awe, then went out carefully, backward, with his eyes fixed an the other’s face.

Rasmunsen followed him out and turned the dogs loose.  He threw them all the salmon he had bought, and coiled a sled-lashing up in his hand.  Then he re-entered the cabin and drew the latch in after him.  The smoke from the cindered steak made his eyes smart.  He stood on the bunk, passed the lashing over the ridge-pole, and measured the swing-off with his eye.  It did not seem to satisfy, for he put the stool on the bunk and climbed upon the stool.  He drove a noose in the end of the lashing and slipped his head through.  The other end he made fast.  Then he kicked the stool out from under.

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8. THE WHITE MAN'S WAY 

“To cook by your fire and to sleep under your roof for the night,” I had announced on entering old Ebbits’s cabin; and he had looked at me blear-eyed and vacuous, while Zilla had favored me with a sour face and a contemptuous grunt.  Zilla was his wife, and no more bitter-tongued, implacable old squaw dwelt on the Yukon.  Nor would I have stopped there had my dogs been less tired or had the rest of the village been inhabited.  But this cabin alone had I found occupied, and in this cabin, perforce, I took my shelter. 

Old Ebbits now and again pulled his tangled wits together, and hints and sparkles of intelligence came and went in his eyes.  Several times during the preparation of my supper he even essayed hospitable inquiries about my health, the condition and number of my dogs, and the distance I had travelled that day.  And each time Zilla had looked sourer than ever and grunted more contemptuously.

Yet I confess that there was no particular call for cheerfulness on their part.  There they crouched by the fire, the pair of them, at the end of their days, old and withered and helpless, racked by rheumatism, bitten by hunger, and tantalized by the frying-odors of my abundance of meat.  They rocked back and forth in a slow and hopeless way, and regularly, once every five minutes, Ebbits emitted a low groan.  It was not so much a groan of pain, as of pain-weariness.  He was oppressed by the weight and the torment of this thing called life, and still more was he oppressed by the fear of death.  His was that eternal tragedy of the aged, with whom the joy of life has departed and the instinct for death has not come.

When my moose-meat spluttered rowdily in the frying-pan, I noticed old Ebbits’s nostrils twitch and distend as he caught the food-scent.  He ceased rocking for a space and forgot to groan, while a look of intelligence seemed to come into his face.

Zilla, on the other hand, rocked more rapidly, and for the first time, in sharp little yelps, voiced her pain.  It came to me that their behavior was like that of hungry dogs, and in the fitness of things I should not have been astonished had Zilla suddenly developed a tail and thumped it on the floor in right doggish fashion.  Ebbits drooled a little and stopped his rocking very frequently to lean forward and thrust his tremulous nose nearer to the source of gustatory excitement.

When I passed them each a plate of the fried meat, they ate greedily, making loud mouth-noises—champings of worn teeth and sucking intakes of the breath, accompanied by a continuous spluttering and mumbling.  After that, when I gave them each a mug of scalding tea, the noises ceased.  Easement and content came into their faces.  Zilla relaxed her sour mouth long enough to sigh her satisfaction.  Neither rocked any more, and they seemed to have fallen into placid meditation.  Then a dampness came into Ebbits’s eyes, and I knew that the sorrow of self-pity was his.  The search required to find their pipes told plainly that they had been without tobacco a long time, and the old man’s eagerness for the narcotic rendered him helpless, so that I was compelled to light his pipe for him.

“Why are you all alone in the village?” I asked.  “Is everybody dead?  Has there been a great sickness?  Are you alone left of the living?”

Old Ebbits shook his head, saying:  “Nay, there has been no great sickness.  The village has gone away to hunt meat.  We be too old, our legs are not strong, nor can our backs carry the burdens of camp and trail.  Wherefore we remain here and wonder when the young men will return with meat.”

“What if the young men do return with meat?” Zilla demanded harshly.

“They may return with much meat,” he quavered hopefully.

“Even so, with much meat,” she continued, more harshly than before.  “But of what worth to you and me?  A few bones to gnaw in our toothless old age.  But the back-fat, the kidneys, and the tongues—these shall go into other mouths than thine and mine, old man.”

Ebbits nodded his head and wept silently.

“There be no one to hunt meat for us,” she cried, turning fiercely upon me.

There was accusation in her manner, and I shrugged my shoulders in token that I was not guilty of the unknown crime imputed to me.

“Know, O White Man, that it is because of thy kind, because of all white men, that my man and I have no meat in our old age and sit without tobacco in the cold.”

“Nay,” Ebbits said gravely, with a stricter sense of justice.  “Wrong has been done us, it be true; but the white men did not mean the wrong.”

“Where be Moklan?” she demanded.  “Where be thy strong son, Moklan, and the fish he was ever willing to bring that you might eat?”

The old man shook his head.

“And where be Bidarshik, thy strong son?  Ever was he a mighty hunter, and ever did he bring thee the good back-fat and the sweet dried tongues of the moose and the caribou.  I see no back-fat and no sweet dried tongues.  Your stomach is full with emptiness through the days, and it is for a man of a very miserable and lying people to give you to eat.”

“Nay,” old Ebbits interposed in kindliness, “the white man’s is not a lying people.  The white man speaks true.  Always does the white man speak true.”  He paused, casting about him for words wherewith to temper the severity of what he was about to say.  “But the white man speaks true in different ways.  To-day he speaks true one way, to-morrow he speaks true another way, and there is no understanding him nor his way.”

“To-day speak true one way, to-morrow speak true another way, which is to lie,” was Zilla’s dictum.

“There is no understanding the white man,” Ebbits went on doggedly.

The meat, and the tea, and the tobacco seemed to have brought him back to life, and he gripped tighter hold of the idea behind his age-bleared eyes.  He straightened up somewhat.  His voice lost its querulous and whimpering note, and became strong and positive.  He turned upon me with dignity, and addressed me as equal addresses equal.

“The white man’s eyes are not shut,” he began.  “The white man sees all things, and thinks greatly, and is very wise.  But the white man of one day is not the white man of next day, and there is no understanding him.  He does not do things always in the same way.  And what way his next way is to be, one cannot know.  Always does the Indian do the one thing in the one way.  Always does the moose come down from the high mountains when the winter is here.  Always does the salmon come in the spring when the ice has gone out of the river.  Always does everything do all things in the same way, and the Indian knows and understands.  But the white man does not do all things in the same way, and the Indian does not know nor understand. 

“Tobacco be very good.  It be food to the hungry man.  It makes the strong man stronger, and the angry man to forget that he is angry.  Also is tobacco of value.  It is of very great value.  The Indian gives one large salmon for one leaf of tobacco, and he chews the tobacco for a long time.  It is the juice of the tobacco that is good.  When it runs down his throat it makes him feel good inside.  But the white man!  When his mouth is full with the juice, what does he do?  That juice, that juice of great value, he spits it out in the snow and it is lost.  Does the white man like tobacco?  I do not know.  But if he likes tobacco, why does he spit out its value and lose it in the snow?  It is a great foolishness and without understanding.”

He ceased, puffed at the pipe, found that it was out, and passed it over to Zilla, who took the sneer at the white man off her lips in order to pucker them about the pipe-stem.  Ebbits seemed sinking back into his senility with the tale untold, and I demanded:

“What of thy sons, Moklan and Bidarshik?  And why is it that you and your old woman are without meat at the end of your years?”

He roused himself as from sleep, and straightened up with an effort.

“It is not good to steal,” he said.  “When the dog takes your meat you beat the dog with a club.  Such is the law.  It is the law the man gave to the dog, and the dog must live to the law, else will it suffer the pain of the club.  When man takes your meat, or your canoe, or your wife, you kill that man.  That is the law, and it is a good law.  It is not good to steal, wherefore it is the law that the man who steals must die.  Whoso breaks the law must suffer hurt.  It is a great hurt to die.”

“But if you kill the man, why do you not kill the dog?” I asked.

Old Ebbits looked at me in childlike wonder, while Zilla sneered openly at the absurdity of my question.

“It is the way of the white man,” Ebbits mumbled with an air of resignation.

“It is the foolishness of the white man,” snapped Zilla.

“Then let old Ebbits teach the white man wisdom,” I said softly.

“The dog is not killed, because it must pull the sled of the man.  No man pulls another man’s sled, wherefore the man is killed.”

“Oh,” I murmured.

“That is the law,” old Ebbits went on.  “Now listen, O White Man, and I will tell you of a great foolishness.  There is an Indian.  His name is Mobits.  From white man he steals two pounds of flour.  What does the white man do?  Does he beat Mobits?  No.  Does he kill Mobits?  No. What does he do to Mobits?  I will tell you, O White Man.  He has a house.  He puts Mobits in that house.  The roof is good.  The walls are thick.  He makes a fire that Mobits may be warm.  He gives Mobits plenty grub to eat.  It is good grub.  Never in his all days does Mobits eat so good grub.  There is bacon, and bread, and beans without end.  Mobits have very good time.

“There is a big lock on door so that Mobits does not run away.  This also is a great foolishness.  Mobits will not run away.  All the time is there plenty grub in that place, and warm blankets, and a big fire.  Very foolish to run away.  Mobits is not foolish.  Three months Mobits stop in that place.  He steal two pounds of flour.  For that, white man take plenty good care of him.  Mobits eat many pounds of flour, many pounds of sugar, of bacon, of beans without end.  Also, Mobits drink much tea.  After three months white man open door and tell Mobits he must go.  Mobits does not want to go.  He is like dog that is fed long time in one place.  He want to stay in that place, and the white man must drive Mobits away.  So Mobits come back to this village, and he is very fat.  That is the white man’s way, and there is no understanding it.  It is a foolishness, a great foolishness.”

“But thy sons?” I insisted.  “Thy very strong sons and thine old-age hunger?”

“There was Moklan,” Ebbits began.

“A strong man,” interrupted the mother.  “He could dip paddle all of a day and night and never stop for the need of rest.  He was wise in the way of the salmon and in the way of the water.  He was very wise.”

“There was Moklan,” Ebbits repeated, ignoring the interruption.  “In the spring, he went down the Yukon with the young men to trade at Cambell Fort.  There is a post there, filled with the goods of the white man, and a trader whose name is Jones.  Likewise is there a white man’s medicine man, what you call missionary.  Also is there bad water at Cambell Fort, where the Yukon goes slim like a maiden, and the water is fast, and the currents rush this way and that and come together, and there are whirls and sucks, and always are the currents changing and the face of the water changing, so at any two times it is never the same.  Moklan is my son, wherefore he is brave man—”

“Was not my father brave man?” Zilla demanded.

“Thy father was brave man,” Ebbits acknowledged, with the air of one who will keep peace in the house at any cost.  “Moklan is thy son and mine, wherefore he is brave.  Mayhap, because of thy very brave father, Moklan is too brave.  It is like when too much water is put in the pot it spills over.  So too much bravery is put into Moklan, and the bravery spills over.

“The young men are much afraid of the bad water at Cambell Fort.  But Moklan is not afraid.  He laughs strong, Ho! ho! and he goes forth into the bad water.  But where the currents come together the canoe is turned over.  A whirl takes Moklan by the legs, and he goes around and around, and down and down, and is seen no more.”

“Ai! ai!” wailed Zilla.  “Crafty and wise was he, and my first-born!”

“I am the father of Moklan,” Ebbits said, having patiently given the woman space for her noise.  “I get into canoe and journey down to Cambell Fort to collect the debt!”

“Debt!” interrupted.  “What debt?”

“The debt of Jones, who is chief trader,” came the answer.  “Such is the law of travel in a strange country.”

I shook my head in token of my ignorance, and Ebbits looked compassion at me, while Zilla snorted her customary contempt.

“Look you, O White Man,” he said.  “In thy camp is a dog that bites.  When the dog bites a man, you give that man a present because you are sorry and because it is thy dog.  You make payment.  Is it not so?  Also, if you have in thy country bad hunting, or bad water, you must make payment.  It is just.  It is the law.  Did not my father’s brother go over into the Tanana Country and get killed by a bear?  And did not the Tanana tribe pay my father many blankets and fine furs?  It was just.  It was bad hunting, and the Tanana people made payment for the bad hunting.

“So I, Ebbits, journeyed down to Cambell Fort to collect the debt.  Jones, who is chief trader, looked at me, and he laughed.  He made great laughter, and would not give payment.  I went to the medicine-man, what you call missionary, and had large talk about the bad water and the payment that should be mine.  And the missionary made talk about other things.  He talk about where Moklan has gone, now he is dead.  There be large fires in that place, and if missionary make true talk, I know that Moklan will be cold no more.  Also the missionary talk about where I shall go when I am dead.  And he say bad things.  He say that I am blind.  Which is a lie.  He say that I am in great darkness.  Which is a lie.  And I say that the day come and the night come for everybody just the same, and that in my village it is no more dark than at Cambell Fort.  Also, I say that darkness and light and where we go when we die be different things from the matter of payment of just debt for bad water.  Then the missionary make large anger, and call me bad names of darkness, and tell me to go away.  And so I come back from Cambell Fort, and no payment has been made, and Moklan is dead, and in my old age I am without fish and meat.”

“Because of the white man,” said Zilla.

“Because of the white man,” Ebbits concurred.  “And other things because of the white man.  There was Bidarshik.  One way did the white man deal with him; and yet another way for the same thing did the white man deal with Yamikan.  And first must I tell you of Yamikan, who was a young man of this village and who chanced to kill a white man.  It is not good to kill a man of another people.  Always is there great trouble.  It was not the fault of Yamikan that he killed the white man.  Yamikan spoke always soft words and ran away from wrath as a dog from a stick.  But this white man drank much whiskey, and in the night-time came to Yamikan’s house and made much fight.  Yamikan cannot run away, and the white man tries to kill him.  Yamikan does not like to die, so he kills the white man.

“Then is all the village in great trouble.  We are much afraid that we must make large payment to the white man’s people, and we hide our blankets, and our furs, and all our wealth, so that it will seem that we are poor people and can make only small payment.  After long time white men come.  They are soldier white men, and they take Yamikan away with them.  His mother make great noise and throw ashes in her hair, for she knows Yamikan is dead.  And all the village knows that Yamikan is dead, and is glad that no payment is asked.

“That is in the spring when the ice has gone out of the river.  One year go by, two years go by.  It is spring-time again, and the ice has gone out of the river.  And then Yamikan, who is dead, comes back to us, and he is not dead, but very fat, and we know that he has slept warm and had plenty grub to eat.  He has much fine clothes and is all the same white man, and he has gathered large wisdom so that he is very quick head man in the village.

“And he has strange things to tell of the way of the white man, for he has seen much of the white man and done a great travel into the white man’s country.  First place, soldier white men take him down the river long way.  All the way do they take him down the river to the end, where it runs into a lake which is larger than all the land and large as the sky.  I do not know the Yukon is so big river, but Yamikan has seen with his own eyes.  I do not think there is a lake larger than all the land and large as the sky, but Yamikan has seen.  Also, he has told me that the waters of this lake be salt, which is a strange thing and beyond understanding.

“But the White Man knows all these marvels for himself, so I shall not weary him with the telling of them.  Only will I tell him what happened to Yamikan.  The white man give Yamikan much fine grub.  All the time does Yamikan eat, and all the time is there plenty more grub.  The white man lives under the sun, so said Yamikan, where there be much warmth, and animals have only hair and no fur, and the green things grow large and strong and become flour, and beans, and potatoes.  And under the sun there is never famine.  Always is there plenty grub.  I do not know.  Yamikan has said.

“And here is a strange thing that befell Yamikan.  Never did the white man hurt him.  Only did they give him warm bed at night and plenty fine grub.  They take him across the salt lake which is big as the sky.  He is on white man’s fire-boat, what you call steamboat, only he is on boat maybe twenty times bigger than steamboat on Yukon.  Also, it is made of iron, this boat, and yet does it not sink.  This I do not understand, but Yamikan has said, ‘I have journeyed far on the iron boat; behold! I am still alive.’  It is a white man’s soldier-boat with many soldier men upon it.

“After many sleeps of travel, a long, long time, Yamikan comes to a land where there is no snow.  I cannot believe this.  It is not in the nature of things that when winter comes there shall be no snow.  But Yamikan has seen.  Also have I asked the white men, and they have said yes, there is no snow in that country.  But I cannot believe, and now I ask you if snow never come in that country.  Also, I would hear the name of that country.  I have heard the name before, but I would hear it again, if it be the same—thus will I know if I have heard lies or true talk.”

Old Ebbits regarded me with a wistful face.  He would have the truth at any cost, though it was his desire to retain his faith in the marvel he had never seen. 

“Yes,” I answered, “it is true talk that you have heard.  There is no snow in that country, and its name is California.”

“Cal-ee-forn-ee-yeh,” he mumbled twice and thrice, listening intently to the sound of the syllables as they fell from his lips.  He nodded his head in confirmation.  “Yes, it is the same country of which Yamikan made talk.”

I recognized the adventure of Yamikan as one likely to occur in the early days when Alaska first passed into the possession of the United States.  Such a murder case, occurring before the instalment of territorial law and officials, might well have been taken down to the United States for trial before a Federal court.

“When Yamikan is in this country where there is no snow,” old Ebbits continued, “he is taken to large house where many men make much talk.  Long time men talk.  Also many questions do they ask Yamikan.  By and by they tell Yamikan he have no more trouble.  Yamikan does not understand, for never has he had any trouble.  All the time have they given him warm place to sleep and plenty grub.

“But after that they give him much better grub, and they give him money, and they take him many places in white man’s country, and he see many strange things which are beyond the understanding of Ebbits, who is an old man and has not journeyed far.  After two years, Yamikan comes back to this village, and he is head man, and very wise until he dies.

“But before he dies, many times does he sit by my fire and make talk of the strange things he has seen.  And Bidarshik, who is my son, sits by the fire and listens; and his eyes are very wide and large because of the things he hears.  One night, after Yamikan has gone home, Bidarshik stands up, so, very tall, and he strikes his chest with his fist, and says, ‘When I am a man, I shall journey in far places, even to the land where there is no snow, and see things for myself.’”

“Always did Bidarshik journey in far places,” Zilla interrupted proudly.

“It be true,” Ebbits assented gravely.  “And always did he return to sit by the fire and hunger for yet other and unknown far places.”

“And always did he remember the salt lake as big as the sky and the country under the sun where there is no snow,” quoth Zilla.

“And always did he say, ‘When I have the full strength of a man, I will go and see for myself if the talk of Yamikan be true talk,’” said Ebbits.

“But there was no way to go to the white man’s country,” said Zilla.

“Did he not go down to the salt lake that is big as the sky?” Ebbits demanded.

“And there was no way for him across the salt lake,” said Zilla.

“Save in the white man’s fire-boat which is of iron and is bigger than twenty steamboats on the Yukon,” said Ebbits.  He scowled at Zilla, whose withered lips were again writhing into speech, and compelled her to silence.  “But the white man would not let him cross the salt lake in the fire-boat, and he returned to sit by the fire and hunger for the country under the sun where there is no snow.’”

“Yet on the salt lake had he seen the fire-boat of iron that did not sink,” cried out Zilla the irrepressible.

“Ay,” said Ebbits, “and he saw that Yamikan had made true talk of the things he had seen.  But there was no way for Bidarshik to journey to the white man’s land under the sun, and he grew sick and weary like an old man and moved not away from the fire.  No longer did he go forth to kill meat—”

“And no longer did he eat the meat placed before him,” Zilla broke in.  “He would shake his head and say, ‘Only do I care to eat the grub of the white man and grow fat after the manner of Yamikan.’”

“And he did not eat the meat,” Ebbits went on.  “And the sickness of Bidarshik grew into a great sickness until I thought he would die.  It was not a sickness of the body, but of the head.  It was a sickness of desire.  I, Ebbits, who am his father, make a great think.  I have no more sons and I do not want Bidarshik to die.  It is a head-sickness, and there is but one way to make it well.  Bidarshik must journey across the lake as large as the sky to the land where there is no snow, else will he die.  I make a very great think, and then I see the way for Bidarshik to go.

“So, one night when he sits by the fire, very sick, his head hanging down, I say, ‘My son, I have learned the way for you to go to the white man’s land.’  He looks at me, and his face is glad.  ‘Go,’ I say, ‘even as Yamikan went.’  But Bidarshik is sick and does not understand.  ‘Go forth,’ I say, ‘and find a white man, and, even as Yamikan, do you kill that white man.  Then will the soldier white men come and get you, and even as they took Yamikan will they take you across the salt lake to the white man’s land.  And then, even as Yamikan, will you return very fat, your eyes full of the things you have seen, your head filled with wisdom.’

“And Bidarshik stands up very quick, and his hand is reaching out for his gun.  ‘Where do you go?’ I ask.  ‘To kill the white man,’ he says.  And I see that my words have been good in the ears of Bidarshik and that he will grow well again.  Also do I know that my words have been wise.

“There is a white man come to this village.  He does not seek after gold in the ground, nor after furs in the forest.  All the time does he seek after bugs and flies.  He does not eat the bugs and flies, then why does he seek after them?  I do not know.  Only do I know that he is a funny white man.  Also does he seek after the eggs of birds.  He does not eat the eggs.  All that is inside he takes out, and only does he keep the shell.  Eggshell is not good to eat.  Nor does he eat the eggshells, but puts them away in soft boxes where they will not break.  He catch many small birds.  But he does not eat the birds.  He takes only the skins and puts them away in boxes.  Also does he like bones.  Bones are not good to eat.  And this strange white man likes best the bones of long time ago which he digs out of the ground.

“But he is not a fierce white man, and I know he will die very easy; so I say to Bidarshik, ‘My son, there is the white man for you to kill.’  And Bidarshik says that my words be wise.  So he goes to a place he knows where are many bones in the ground.  He digs up very many of these bones and brings them to the strange white man’s camp.  The white man is made very glad.  His face shines like the sun, and he smiles with much gladness as he looks at the bones.  He bends his head over, so, to look well at the bones, and then Bidarshik strikes him hard on the head, with axe, once, so, and the strange white man kicks and is dead. 

“‘Now,’ I say to Bidarshik, ‘will the white soldier men come and take you away to the land under the sun, where you will eat much and grow fat.’  Bidarshik is happy.  Already has his sickness gone from him, and he sits by the fire and waits for the coming of the white soldier men.

“How was I to know the way of the white man is never twice the same?” the old man demanded, whirling upon me fiercely.  “How was I to know that what the white man does yesterday he will not do to-day, and that what he does to-day he will not do to-morrow?”  Ebbits shook his head sadly.  “There is no understanding the white man.  Yesterday he takes Yamikan to the land under the sun and makes him fat with much grub.  To-day he takes Bidarshik and—what does he do with Bidarshik?  Let me tell you what he does with Bidarshik.

“I, Ebbits, his father, will tell you.  He takes Bidarshik to Cambell Fort, and he ties a rope around his neck, so, and, when his feet are no more on the ground, he dies.”

“Ai! ai!” wailed Zilla.  “And never does he cross the lake large as the sky, nor see the land under the sun where there is no snow.”

“Wherefore,” old Ebbits said with grave dignity, “there be no one to hunt meat for me in my old age, and I sit hungry by my fire and tell my story to the White Man who has given me grub, and strong tea, and tobacco for my pipe.”

“Because of the lying and very miserable white people,” Zilla proclaimed shrilly.

“Nay,” answered the old man with gentle positiveness.  “Because of the way of the white man, which is without understanding and never twice the same.”

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9. A DAY'S LODGING 

It was the gosh-dangdest stampede I ever seen.  A thousand dog-teams hittin’ the ice.  You couldn’t see ’m fer smoke.  Two white men an’ a Swede froze to death that night, an’ there was a dozen busted their lungs.  But didn’t I see with my own eyes the bottom of the water-hole?  It was yellow with gold like a mustard-plaster.  That’s why I staked the Yukon for a minin’ claim.  That’s what made the stampede.  An’ then there was nothin’ to it.  That’s what I said—NOTHIN’ to it.  An’ I ain’t got over guessin’ yet.

Narrative of Shorty.

John Messner clung with mittened hand to the bucking gee-pole and held the sled in the trail.  With the other mittened hand he rubbed his cheeks and nose.  He rubbed his cheeks and nose every little while.  In point of fact, he rarely ceased from rubbing them, and sometimes, as their numbness increased, he rubbed fiercely.  His forehead was covered by the visor of his fur cap, the flaps of which went over his ears.  The rest of his face was protected by a thick beard, golden-brown under its coating of frost.

Behind him churned a heavily loaded Yukon sled, and before him toiled a string of five dogs.  The rope by which they dragged the sled rubbed against the side of Messner’s leg.  When the dogs swung on a bend in the trail, he stepped over the rope.  There were many bends, and he was compelled to step over it often.  Sometimes he tripped on the rope, or stumbled, and at all times he was awkward, betraying a weariness so great that the sled now and again ran upon his heels.

When he came to a straight piece of trail, where the sled could get along for a moment without guidance, he let go the gee-pole and batted his right hand sharply upon the hard wood.  He found it difficult to keep up the circulation in that hand.  But while he pounded the one hand, he never ceased from rubbing his nose and cheeks with the other.

“It’s too cold to travel, anyway,” he said.  He spoke aloud, after the manner of men who are much by themselves.  “Only a fool would travel at such a temperature.  If it isn’t eighty below, it’s because it’s seventy-nine.”

He pulled out his watch, and after some fumbling got it back into the breast pocket of his thick woollen jacket.  Then he surveyed the heavens and ran his eye along the white sky-line to the south.

“Twelve o’clock,” he mumbled, “A clear sky, and no sun.”

He plodded on silently for ten minutes, and then, as though there had been no lapse in his speech, he added:

“And no ground covered, and it’s too cold to travel.”

Suddenly he yelled “Whoa!” at the dogs, and stopped.  He seemed in a wild panic over his right hand, and proceeded to hammer it furiously against the gee-pole.

“You—poor—devils!” he addressed the dogs, which had dropped down heavily on the ice to rest.  His was a broken, jerky utterance, caused by the violence with which he hammered his numb hand upon the wood.  “What have you done anyway that a two-legged other animal should come along, break you to harness, curb all your natural proclivities, and make slave-beasts out of you?”

He rubbed his nose, not reflectively, but savagely, in order to drive the blood into it, and urged the dogs to their work again.  He travelled on the frozen surface of a great river.  Behind him it stretched away in a mighty curve of many miles, losing itself in a fantastic jumble of mountains, snow-covered and silent.  Ahead of him the river split into many channels to accommodate the freight of islands it carried on its breast.  These islands were silent and white.  No animals nor humming insects broke the silence.  No birds flew in the chill air.  There was no sound of man, no mark of the handiwork of man.  The world slept, and it was like the sleep of death. 

John Messner seemed succumbing to the apathy of it all.  The frost was benumbing his spirit.  He plodded on with bowed head, unobservant, mechanically rubbing nose and cheeks, and batting his steering hand against the gee-pole in the straight trail-stretches.

But the dogs were observant, and suddenly they stopped, turning their heads and looking back at their master out of eyes that were wistful and questioning.  Their eyelashes were frosted white, as were their muzzles, and they had all the seeming of decrepit old age, what of the frost-rime and exhaustion.

The man was about to urge them on, when he checked himself, roused up with an effort, and looked around.  The dogs had stopped beside a water-hole, not a fissure, but a hole man-made, chopped laboriously with an axe through three and a half feet of ice.  A thick skin of new ice showed that it had not been used for some time.  Messner glanced about him.  The dogs were already pointing the way, each wistful and hoary muzzle turned toward the dim snow-path that left the main river trail and climbed the bank of the island.

“All right, you sore-footed brutes,” he said.  “I’ll investigate.  You’re not a bit more anxious to quit than I am.”

He climbed the bank and disappeared.  The dogs did not lie down, but on their feet eagerly waited his return.  He came back to them, took a hauling-rope from the front of the sled, and put it around his shoulders.  Then he gee’d the dogs to the right and put them at the bank on the run.  It was a stiff pull, but their weariness fell from them as they crouched low to the snow, whining with eagerness and gladness as they struggled upward to the last ounce of effort in their bodies.  When a dog slipped or faltered, the one behind nipped his hind quarters.  The man shouted encouragement and threats, and threw all his weight on the hauling-rope.

They cleared the bank with a rush, swung to the left, and dashed up to a small log cabin.  It was a deserted cabin of a single room, eight feet by ten on the inside.  Messner unharnessed the animals, unloaded his sled and took possession.  The last chance wayfarer had left a supply of firewood.  Messner set up his light sheet-iron stove and starred a fire.  He put five sun-cured salmon into the oven to thaw out for the dogs, and from the water-hole filled his coffee-pot and cooking-pail.

While waiting for the water to boil, he held his face over the stove.  The moisture from his breath had collected on his beard and frozen into a great mass of ice, and this he proceeded to thaw out.  As it melted and dropped upon the stove it sizzled and rose about him in steam.  He helped the process with his fingers, working loose small ice-chunks that fell rattling to the floor.

A wild outcry from the dogs without did not take him from his task.  He heard the wolfish snarling and yelping of strange dogs and the sound of voices.  A knock came on the door.

“Come in,” Messner called, in a voice muffled because at the moment he was sucking loose a fragment of ice from its anchorage on his upper lip.

The door opened, and, gazing out of his cloud of steam, he saw a man and a woman pausing on the threshold.

“Come in,” he said peremptorily, “and shut the door!”

Peering through the steam, he could make out but little of their personal appearance.  The nose and cheek strap worn by the woman and the trail-wrappings about her head allowed only a pair of black eyes to be seen.  The man was dark-eyed and smooth-shaven all except his mustache, which was so iced up as to hide his mouth.

“We just wanted to know if there is any other cabin around here,” he said, at the same time glancing over the unfurnished state of the room.  “We thought this cabin was empty.”

“It isn’t my cabin,” Messner answered.  “I just found it a few minutes ago.  Come right in and camp.  Plenty of room, and you won’t need your stove.  There’s room for all.”

At the sound of his voice the woman peered at him with quick curiousness.

“Get your things off,” her companion said to her.  “I’ll unhitch and get the water so we can start cooking.”

Messner took the thawed salmon outside and fed his dogs.  He had to guard them against the second team of dogs, and when he had reëntered the cabin the other man had unpacked the sled and fetched water.  Messner’s pot was boiling.  He threw in the coffee, settled it with half a cup of cold water, and took the pot from the stove.  He thawed some sour-dough biscuits in the oven, at the same time heating a pot of beans he had boiled the night before and that had ridden frozen on the sled all morning.

Removing his utensils from the stove, so as to give the newcomers a chance to cook, he proceeded to take his meal from the top of his grub-box, himself sitting on his bed-roll.  Between mouthfuls he talked trail and dogs with the man, who, with head over the stove, was thawing the ice from his mustache.  There were two bunks in the cabin, and into one of them, when he had cleared his lip, the stranger tossed his bed-roll.

“We’ll sleep here,” he said, “unless you prefer this bunk.  You’re the first comer and you have first choice, you know.”

“That’s all right,” Messner answered.  “One bunk’s just as good as the other.”

He spread his own bedding in the second bunk, and sat down on the edge.  The stranger thrust a physician’s small travelling case under his blankets at one end to serve for a pillow.

“Doctor?” Messner asked.

“Yes,” came the answer, “but I assure you I didn’t come into the Klondike to practise.”

The woman busied herself with cooking, while the man sliced bacon and fired the stove.  The light in the cabin was dim, filtering through in a small window made of onion-skin writing paper and oiled with bacon grease, so that John Messner could not make out very well what the woman looked like.  Not that he tried.  He seemed to have no interest in her.  But she glanced curiously from time to time into the dark corner where he sat. 

“Oh, it’s a great life,” the doctor proclaimed enthusiastically, pausing from sharpening his knife on the stovepipe.  “What I like about it is the struggle, the endeavor with one’s own hands, the primitiveness of it, the realness.”

“The temperature is real enough,” Messner laughed.

“Do you know how cold it actually is?” the doctor demanded.

The other shook his head.

“Well, I’ll tell you.  Seventy-four below zero by spirit thermometer on the sled.”

“That’s one hundred and six below freezing point—too cold for travelling, eh?”

“Practically suicide,” was the doctor’s verdict.  “One exerts himself.  He breathes heavily, taking into his lungs the frost itself.  It chills his lungs, freezes the edges of the tissues.  He gets a dry, hacking cough as the dead tissue sloughs away, and dies the following summer of pneumonia, wondering what it’s all about.  I’ll stay in this cabin for a week, unless the thermometer rises at least to fifty below.”

“I say, Tess,” he said, the next moment, “don’t you think that coffee’s boiled long enough!”

At the sound of the woman’s name, John Messner became suddenly alert.  He looked at her quickly, while across his face shot a haunting expression, the ghost of some buried misery achieving swift resurrection.  But the next moment, and by an effort of will, the ghost was laid again.  His face was as placid as before, though he was still alert, dissatisfied with what the feeble light had shown him of the woman’s face.

Automatically, her first act had been to set the coffee-pot back.  It was not until she had done this that she glanced at Messner.  But already he had composed himself.  She saw only a man sitting on the edge of the bunk and incuriously studying the toes of his moccasins.  But, as she turned casually to go about her cooking, he shot another swift look at her, and she, glancing as swiftly back, caught his look.  He shifted on past her to the doctor, though the slightest smile curled his lip in appreciation of the way she had trapped him.

She drew a candle from the grub-box and lighted it.  One look at her illuminated face was enough for Messner.  In the small cabin the widest limit was only a matter of several steps, and the next moment she was alongside of him.  She deliberately held the candle close to his face and stared at him out of eyes wide with fear and recognition.  He smiled quietly back at her.

“What are you looking for, Tess?” the doctor called.

“Hairpins,” she replied, passing on and rummaging in a clothes-bag on the bunk.

They served their meal on their grub-box, sitting on Messner’s grub-box and facing him.  He had stretched out on his bunk to rest, lying on his side, his head on his arm.  In the close quarters it was as though the three were together at table.

“What part of the States do you come from?” Messner asked.

“San Francisco,” answered the doctor.  “I’ve been in here two years, though.”

“I hail from California myself,” was Messner’s announcement.

The woman looked at him appealingly, but he smiled and went on:

“Berkeley, you know.”

The other man was becoming interested.

“U. C.?” he asked.

“Yes, Class of ’86.”

“I meant faculty,” the doctor explained.  “You remind me of the type.”

“Sorry to hear you say so,” Messner smiled back.  “I’d prefer being taken for a prospector or a dog-musher.”

“I don’t think he looks any more like a professor than you do a doctor,” the woman broke in.

“Thank you,” said Messner.  Then, turning to her companion, “By the way, Doctor, what is your name, if I may ask?”

“Haythorne, if you’ll take my word for it.  I gave up cards with civilization.”

“And Mrs. Haythorne,” Messner smiled and bowed.

She flashed a look at him that was more anger than appeal.

Haythorne was about to ask the other’s name.  His mouth had opened to form the question when Messner cut him off.

“Come to think of it, Doctor, you may possibly be able to satisfy my curiosity.  There was a sort of scandal in faculty circles some two or three years ago.  The wife of one of the English professors—er, if you will pardon me, Mrs. Haythorne—disappeared with some San Francisco doctor, I understood, though his name does not just now come to my lips.  Do you remember the incident?”

Haythorne nodded his head.  “Made quite a stir at the time.  His name was Womble—Graham Womble.  He had a magnificent practice.  I knew him somewhat.”

“Well, what I was trying to get at was what had become of them.  I was wondering if you had heard.  They left no trace, hide nor hair.”

“He covered his tracks cunningly.”  Haythorne cleared his throat.  “There was rumor that they went to the South Seas—were lost on a trading schooner in a typhoon, or something like that.”

“I never heard that,” Messner said.  “You remember the case, Mrs. Haythorne?”

“Perfectly,” she answered, in a voice the control of which was in amazing contrast to the anger that blazed in the face she turned aside so that Haythorne might not see.

The latter was again on the verge of asking his name, when Messner remarked:

“This Dr. Womble, I’ve heard he was very handsome, and—er—quite a success, so to say, with the ladies.”

“Well, if he was, he finished himself off by that affair,” Haythorne grumbled.

“And the woman was a termagant—at least so I’ve been told.  It was generally accepted in Berkeley that she made life—er—not exactly paradise for her husband.”

“I never heard that,” Haythorne rejoined.  “In San Francisco the talk was all the other way.”

“Woman sort of a martyr, eh?—crucified on the cross of matrimony?”

The doctor nodded.  Messner’s gray eyes were mildly curious as he went on:

“That was to be expected—two sides to the shield.  Living in Berkeley I only got the one side.  She was a great deal in San Francisco, it seems.”

“Some coffee, please,” Haythorne said.

The woman refilled his mug, at the same time breaking into light laughter.

“You’re gossiping like a pair of beldames,” she chided them.

“It’s so interesting,” Messner smiled at her, then returned to the doctor.  “The husband seems then to have had a not very savory reputation in San Francisco?”

“On the contrary, he was a moral prig,” Haythorne blurted out, with apparently undue warmth.  “He was a little scholastic shrimp without a drop of red blood in his body.”

“Did you know him?”

“Never laid eyes on him.  I never knocked about in university circles.”

“One side of the shield again,” Messner said, with an air of weighing the matter judicially.  “While he did not amount to much, it is true—that is, physically—I’d hardly say he was as bad as all that.  He did take an active interest in student athletics.  And he had some talent.  He once wrote a Nativity play that brought him quite a bit of local appreciation.  I have heard, also, that he was slated for the head of the English department, only the affair happened and he resigned and went away.  It quite broke his career, or so it seemed.  At any rate, on our side the shield, it was considered a knock-out blow to him.  It was thought he cared a great deal for his wife.”

Haythorne, finishing his mug of coffee, grunted uninterestedly and lighted his pipe.

“It was fortunate they had no children,” Messner continued.

But Haythorne, with a glance at the stove, pulled on his cap and mittens.

“I’m going out to get some wood,” he said.  “Then I can take off my moccasins and he comfortable.”

The door slammed behind him.  For a long minute there was silence.  The man continued in the same position on the bed.  The woman sat on the grub-box, facing him.

“What are you going to do?” she asked abruptly.

Messner looked at her with lazy indecision.  “What do you think I ought to do?  Nothing scenic, I hope.  You see I am stiff and trail-sore, and this bunk is so restful.”

She gnawed her lower lip and fumed dumbly.

“But—” she began vehemently, then clenched her hands and stopped.

“I hope you don’t want me to kill Mr.—er—Haythorne,” he said gently, almost pleadingly.  “It would be most distressing, and, I assure you, really it is unnecessary.”

“But you must do something,” she cried.

“On the contrary, it is quite conceivable that I do not have to do anything.”

“You would stay here?”

He nodded.

She glanced desperately around the cabin and at the bed unrolled on the other bunk.  “Night is coming on.  You can’t stop here.  You can’t!  I tell you, you simply can’t!”

“Of course I can.  I might remind you that I found this cabin first and that you are my guests.”

Again her eyes travelled around the room, and the terror in them leaped up at sight of the other bunk.

“Then we’ll have to go,” she announced decisively.

“Impossible.  You have a dry, hacking cough—the sort Mr.—er—Haythorne so aptly described.  You’ve already slightly chilled your lungs.  Besides, he is a physician and knows.  He would never permit it.”

“Then what are you going to do?” she demanded again, with a tense, quiet utterance that boded an outbreak.

Messner regarded her in a way that was almost paternal, what of the profundity of pity and patience with which he contrived to suffuse it.

“My dear Theresa, as I told you before, I don’t know.  I really haven’t thought about it.”

“Oh!  You drive me mad!”  She sprang to her feet, wringing her hands in impotent wrath.  “You never used to be this way.”

“I used to be all softness and gentleness,” he nodded concurrence.  “Was that why you left me?”

“You are so different, so dreadfully calm.  You frighten me.  I feel you have something terrible planned all the while.  But whatever you do, don’t do anything rash.  Don’t get excited—”

“I don’t get excited any more,” he interrupted.  “Not since you went away.”

“You have improved—remarkably,” she retorted.

He smiled acknowledgment.  “While I am thinking about what I shall do, I’ll tell you what you will have to do—tell Mr.—er—Haythorne who I am.  It may make our stay in this cabin more—may I say, sociable?”

“Why have you followed me into this frightful country?” she asked irrelevantly.

“Don’t think I came here looking for you, Theresa.  Your vanity shall not be tickled by any such misapprehension.  Our meeting is wholly fortuitous.  I broke with the life academic and I had to go somewhere.  To be honest, I came into the Klondike because I thought it the place you were least liable to be in.” 

There was a fumbling at the latch, then the door swung in and Haythorne entered with an armful of firewood.  At the first warning, Theresa began casually to clear away the dishes.  Haythorne went out again after more wood.

“Why didn’t you introduce us?” Messner queried.

“I’ll tell him,” she replied, with a toss of her head.  “Don’t think I’m afraid.”

“I never knew you to be afraid, very much, of anything.”

“And I’m not afraid of confession, either,” she said, with softening face and voice.

“In your case, I fear, confession is exploitation by indirection, profit-making by ruse, self-aggrandizement at the expense of God.”

“Don’t be literary,” she pouted, with growing tenderness.  “I never did like epigrammatic discussion.  Besides, I’m not afraid to ask you to forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Theresa.  I really should thank you.  True, at first I suffered; and then, with all the graciousness of spring, it dawned upon me that I was happy, very happy.  It was a most amazing discovery.”

“But what if I should return to you?” she asked.

“I should” (he looked at her whimsically), “be greatly perturbed.”

“I am your wife.  You know you have never got a divorce.”

“I see,” he meditated.  “I have been careless.  It will be one of the first things I attend to.”

She came over to his side, resting her hand on his arm.  “You don’t want me, John?”  Her voice was soft and caressing, her hand rested like a lure.  “If I told you I had made a mistake?  If I told you that I was very unhappy?—and I am.  And I did make a mistake.”

Fear began to grow on Messner.  He felt himself wilting under the lightly laid hand.  The situation was slipping away from him, all his beautiful calmness was going.  She looked at him with melting eyes, and he, too, seemed all dew and melting.  He felt himself on the edge of an abyss, powerless to withstand the force that was drawing him over.

“I am coming back to you, John.  I am coming back to-day . . . now.”

As in a nightmare, he strove under the hand.  While she talked, he seemed to hear, rippling softly, the song of the Lorelei.  It was as though, somewhere, a piano were playing and the actual notes were impinging on his ear-drums.

Suddenly he sprang to his feet, thrust her from him as her arms attempted to clasp him, and retreated backward to the door.  He was in a panic.

“I’ll do something desperate!” he cried.

“I warned you not to get excited.”  She laughed mockingly, and went about washing the dishes.  “Nobody wants you.  I was just playing with you.  I am happier where I am.”

But Messner did not believe.  He remembered her facility in changing front.  She had changed front now.  It was exploitation by indirection.  She was not happy with the other man.  She had discovered her mistake.  The flame of his ego flared up at the thought.  She wanted to come back to him, which was the one thing he did not want.  Unwittingly, his hand rattled the door-latch.

“Don’t run away,” she laughed.  “I won’t bite you.”

“I am not running away,” he replied with child-like defiance, at the same time pulling on his mittens.  “I’m only going to get some water.”

He gathered the empty pails and cooking pots together and opened the door.  He looked back at her.

“Don’t forget you’re to tell Mr.—er—Haythorne who I am.”

Messner broke the skin that had formed on the water-hole within the hour, and filled his pails.  But he did not return immediately to the cabin.  Leaving the pails standing in the trail, he walked up and down, rapidly, to keep from freezing, for the frost bit into the flesh like fire.  His beard was white with his frozen breath when the perplexed and frowning brows relaxed and decision came into his face.  He had made up his mind to his course of action, and his frigid lips and cheeks crackled into a chuckle over it.  The pails were already skinned over with young ice when he picked them up and made for the cabin.

When he entered he found the other man waiting, standing near the stove, a certain stiff awkwardness and indecision in his manner.  Messner set down his water-pails.

“Glad to meet you, Graham Womble,” he said in conventional tones, as though acknowledging an introduction.

Messner did not offer his hand.  Womble stirred uneasily, feeling for the other the hatred one is prone to feel for one he has wronged.

“And so you’re the chap,” Messner said in marvelling accents.  “Well, well.  You see, I really am glad to meet you.  I have been—er—curious to know what Theresa found in you—where, I may say, the attraction lay.  Well, well.”

And he looked the other up and down as a man would look a horse up and down.

“I know how you must feel about me,” Womble began.

“Don’t mention it,” Messner broke in with exaggerated cordiality of voice and manner.  “Never mind that.  What I want to know is how do you find her?  Up to expectations?  Has she worn well?  Life been all a happy dream ever since?”

“Don’t be silly,” Theresa interjected.

“I can’t help being natural,” Messner complained.

“You can be expedient at the same time, and practical,” Womble said sharply.  “What we want to know is what are you going to do?”

Messner made a well-feigned gesture of helplessness.  “I really don’t know.  It is one of those impossible situations against which there can be no provision.”

“All three of us cannot remain the night in this cabin.”

Messner nodded affirmation.

“Then somebody must get out.”

“That also is incontrovertible,” Messner agreed.  “When three bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time, one must get out.”

“And you’re that one,” Womble announced grimly.  “It’s a ten-mile pull to the next camp, but you can make it all right.”

“And that’s the first flaw in your reasoning,” the other objected.  “Why, necessarily, should I be the one to get out?  I found this cabin first.”

“But Tess can’t get out,” Womble explained.  “Her lungs are already slightly chilled.”

“I agree with you.  She can’t venture ten miles of frost.  By all means she must remain.”

“Then it is as I said,” Womble announced with finality.

Messner cleared his throat.  “Your lungs are all right, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but what of it?”

Again the other cleared his throat and spoke with painstaking and judicial slowness.  “Why, I may say, nothing of it, except, ah, according to your own reasoning, there is nothing to prevent your getting out, hitting the frost, so to speak, for a matter of ten miles.  You can make it all right.”

Womble looked with quick suspicion at Theresa and caught in her eyes a glint of pleased surprise.

“Well?” he demanded of her.

She hesitated, and a surge of anger darkened his face.  He turned upon Messner.

“Enough of this.  You can’t stop here.”

“Yes, I can.”

“I won’t let you.” Womble squared his shoulders.  “I’m running things.”

“I’ll stay anyway,” the other persisted.

“I’ll put you out.”

“I’ll come back.”

Womble stopped a moment to steady his voice and control himself.  Then he spoke slowly, in a low, tense voice.

“Look here, Messner, if you refuse to get out, I’ll thrash you.  This isn’t California.  I’ll beat you to a jelly with my two fists.”

Messner shrugged his shoulders.  “If you do, I’ll call a miners’ meeting and see you strung up to the nearest tree.  As you said, this is not California.  They’re a simple folk, these miners, and all I’ll have to do will be to show them the marks of the beating, tell them the truth about you, and present my claim for my wife.”

The woman attempted to speak, but Womble turned upon her fiercely.

“You keep out of this,” he cried.

In marked contrast was Messner’s “Please don’t intrude, Theresa.”

What of her anger and pent feelings, her lungs were irritated into the dry, hacking cough, and with blood-suffused face and one hand clenched against her chest, she waited for the paroxysm to pass.

Womble looked gloomily at her, noting her cough.

“Something must be done,” he said.  “Yet her lungs can’t stand the exposure.  She can’t travel till the temperature rises.  And I’m not going to give her up.”

Messner hemmed, cleared his throat, and hemmed again, semi-apologetically, and said, “I need some money.”

Contempt showed instantly in Womble’s face.  At last, beneath him in vileness, had the other sunk himself.

“You’ve got a fat sack of dust,” Messner went on.  “I saw you unload it from the sled.”

“How much do you want?” Womble demanded, with a contempt in his voice equal to that in his face.

“I made an estimate of the sack, and I—ah—should say it weighed about twenty pounds.  What do you say we call it four thousand?”

“But it’s all I’ve got, man!” Womble cried out.

“You’ve got her,” the other said soothingly.  “She must be worth it.  Think what I’m giving up.  Surely it is a reasonable price.”

“All right.”  Womble rushed across the floor to the gold-sack.  “Can’t put this deal through too quick for me, you—you little worm!”

“Now, there you err,” was the smiling rejoinder.  “As a matter of ethics isn’t the man who gives a bribe as bad as the man who takes a bribe?  The receiver is as bad as the thief, you know; and you needn’t console yourself with any fictitious moral superiority concerning this little deal.”

“To hell with your ethics!” the other burst out.  “Come here and watch the weighing of this dust.  I might cheat you.”

And the woman, leaning against the bunk, raging and impotent, watched herself weighed out in yellow dust and nuggets in the scales erected on the grub-box.  The scales were small, making necessary many weighings, and Messner with precise care verified each weighing.

“There’s too much silver in it,” he remarked as he tied up the gold-sack.  “I don’t think it will run quite sixteen to the ounce.  You got a trifle the better of me, Womble.”

He handled the sack lovingly, and with due appreciation of its preciousness carried it out to his sled.

Returning, he gathered his pots and pans together, packed his grub-box, and rolled up his bed.  When the sled was lashed and the complaining dogs harnessed, he returned into the cabin for his mittens.

“Good-by, Tess,” he said, standing at the open door.

She turned on him, struggling for speech but too frantic to word the passion that burned in her.

“Good-by, Tess,” he repeated gently.

“Beast!” she managed to articulate.

She turned and tottered to the bunk, flinging herself face down upon it, sobbing:  “You beasts!  You beasts!”

John Messner closed the door softly behind him, and, as he started the dogs, looked back at the cabin with a great relief in his face.  At the bottom of the bank, beside the water-hole, he halted the sled.  He worked the sack of gold out between the lashings and carried it to the water-hole.  Already a new skin of ice had formed.  This he broke with his fist.  Untying the knotted mouth with his teeth, he emptied the contents of the sack into the water.  The river was shallow at that point, and two feet beneath the surface he could see the bottom dull-yellow in the fading light.  At the sight of it, he spat into the hole.

He started the dogs along the Yukon trail.  Whining spiritlessly, they were reluctant to work.  Clinging to the gee-pole with his right band and with his left rubbing cheeks and nose, he stumbled over the rope as the dogs swung on a bend.

“Mush-on, you poor, sore-footed brutes!” he cried.  “That’s it, mush-on!”

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10. TRUST 

All lines had been cast off, and the Seattle No. 4 was pulling slowly out from the shore.  Her decks were piled high with freight and baggage, and swarmed with a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs, and dog-mushers, prospectors, traders, and homeward-bound gold-seekers.  A goodly portion of Dawson was lined up on the bank, saying good-bye.  As the gang-plank came in and the steamer nosed into the stream, the clamour of farewell became deafening.  Also, in that eleventh moment, everybody began to remember final farewell messages and to shout them back and forth across the widening stretch of water.  Louis Bondell, curling his yellow moustache with one hand and languidly waving the other hand to his friends on shore, suddenly remembered something and sprang to the rail.

“Oh, Fred!” he bawled.  “Oh, Fred!”

The “Fred” desired thrust a strapping pair of shoulders through the forefront of the crowd on the bank and tried to catch Louis Bondell’s message.  The latter grew red in the face with vain vociferation.  Still the water widened between steamboat and shore.

“Hey, you, Captain Scott!” he yelled at the pilot-house.  “Stop the boat!”

The gongs clanged, and the big stern wheel reversed, then stopped.  All hands on steamboat and on bank took advantage of this respite to exchange final, new, and imperative farewells.  More futile than ever was Louis Bondell’s effort to make himself heard.  The Seattle No. 4 lost way and drifted down-stream, and Captain Scott had to go ahead and reverse a second time.  His head disappeared inside the pilot-house, coming into view a moment later behind a big megaphone.

Now Captain Scott had a remarkable voice, and the “Shut up!” he launched at the crowd on deck and on shore could have been heard at the top of Moosehide Mountain and as far as Klondike City.  This official remonstrance from the pilot-house spread a film of silence over the tumult.

“Now, what do you want to say?” Captain Scott demanded.

“Tell Fred Churchill—he’s on the bank there—tell him to go to Macdonald.  It’s in his safe—a small gripsack of mine.  Tell him to get it and bring it out when he comes.”

In the silence Captain Scott bellowed the message ashore through the megaphone:—

“You, Fred Churchill, go to Macdonald—in his safe—small gripsack—belongs to Louis Bondell—important!  Bring it out when you come!  Got it!”

Churchill waved his hand in token that he had got it.  In truth, had Macdonald, half a mile away, opened his window, he’d have got it, too.  The tumult of farewell rose again, the gongs clanged, and the Seattle No. 4 went ahead, swung out into the stream, turned on her heel, and headed down the Yukon, Bondell and Churchill waving farewell and mutual affection to the last.

That was in midsummer.  In the fall of the year, the W. H. Willis started up the Yukon with two hundred homeward-bound pilgrims on board.  Among them was Churchill.  In his state-room, in the middle of a clothes-bag, was Louis Bondell’s grip.  It was a small, stout leather affair, and its weight of forty pounds always made Churchill nervous when he wandered too far from it.  The man in the adjoining state-room had a treasure of gold-dust hidden similarly in a clothes-bag, and the pair of them ultimately arranged to stand watch and watch.  While one went down to eat, the other kept an eye on the two state-room doors.  When Churchill wanted to take a hand at whist, the other man mounted guard, and when the other man wanted to relax his soul, Churchill read four-months’ old newspapers on a camp stool between the two doors.

There were signs of an early winter, and the question that was discussed from dawn till dark, and far into the dark, was whether they would get out before the freeze-up or be compelled to abandon the steamboat and tramp out over the ice.  There were irritating delays.  Twice the engines broke down and had to be tinkered up, and each time there were snow flurries to warn them of the imminence of winter.  Nine times the W. H. Willis essayed to ascend the Five-Finger Rapids with her impaired machinery, and when she succeeded, she was four days behind her very liberal schedule.  The question that then arose was whether or not the steamboat Flora would wait for her above the Box Cañon.  The stretch of water between the head of the Box Cañon and the foot of the White Horse Rapids was unnavigable for steamboats, and passengers were transhipped at that point, walking around the rapids from one steamboat to the other.  There were no telephones in the country, hence no way of informing the waiting Flora that the Willis was four days late, but coming. 

When the  W. H. Willis  pulled into White Horse, it was learned that the Flora had waited three days over the limit, and had departed only a few hours before.  Also, it was learned that she would tie up at Tagish Post till nine o’clock, Sunday morning.  It was then four o’clock, Saturday afternoon.  The pilgrims called a meeting.  On board was a large Peterborough canoe, consigned to the police post at the head of Lake Bennett.  They agreed to be responsible for it and to deliver it.  Next, they called for volunteers.  Two men were needed to make a race for the Flora.  A score of men volunteered on the instant.  Among them was Churchill, such being his nature that he volunteered before he thought of Bondell’s gripsack.  When this thought came to him, he began to hope that he would not be selected; but a man who had made a name as captain of a college football eleven, as a president of an athletic club, as a dog-musher and a stampeder in the Yukon, and, moreover, who possessed such shoulders as he, had no right to avoid the honour.  It was thrust upon him and upon a gigantic German, Nick Antonsen.

While a crowd of the pilgrims, the canoe on their shoulders, started on a trot over the portage, Churchill ran to his state-room.  He turned the contents of the clothes-bag on the floor and caught up the grip, with the intention of entrusting it to the man next door.  Then the thought smote him that it was not his grip, and that he had no right to let it out of his possession.  So he dashed ashore with it and ran up the portage changing it often from one hand to the other, and wondering if it really did not weigh more than forty pounds.

It was half-past four in the afternoon when the two men started.  The current of the Thirty Mile River was so strong that rarely could they use the paddles.  It was out on one bank with a tow-line over the shoulders, stumbling over the rocks, forcing a way through the underbrush, slipping at times and falling into the water, wading often up to the knees and waist; and then, when an insurmountable bluff was encountered, it was into the canoe, out paddles, and a wild and losing dash across the current to the other bank, in paddles, over the side, and out tow-line again.  It was exhausting work.  Antonsen toiled like the giant he was, uncomplaining, persistent, but driven to his utmost by the powerful body and indomitable brain of Churchill.  They never paused for rest.  It was go, go, and keep on going.  A crisp wind blew down the river, freezing their hands and making it imperative, from time to time, to beat the blood back into the numbed fingers.

As night came on, they were compelled to trust to luck.  They fell repeatedly on the untravelled banks and tore their clothing to shreds in the underbrush they could not see.  Both men were badly scratched and bleeding.  A dozen times, in their wild dashes from bank to bank, they struck snags and were capsized.  The first time this happened, Churchill dived and groped in three feet of water for the gripsack.  He lost half an hour in recovering it, and after that it was carried securely lashed to the canoe.  As long as the canoe floated it was safe.  Antonsen jeered at the grip, and toward morning began to curse it; but Churchill vouchsafed no explanations.

Their delays and mischances were endless.  On one swift bend, around which poured a healthy young rapid, they lost two hours, making a score of attempts and capsizing twice.  At this point, on both banks, were precipitous bluffs, rising out of deep water, and along which they could neither tow nor pole, while they could not gain with the paddles against the current.  At each attempt they strained to the utmost with the paddles, and each time, with heads nigh to bursting from the effort, they were played out and swept back.  They succeeded finally by an accident.  In the swiftest current, near the end of another failure, a freak of the current sheered the canoe out of Churchill’s control and flung it against the bluff.  Churchill made a blind leap at the bluff and landed in a crevice.  Holding on with one hand, he held the swamped canoe with the other till Antonsen dragged himself out of the water.  Then they pulled the canoe out and rested.  A fresh start at this crucial point took them by.  They landed on the bank above and plunged immediately ashore and into the brush with the tow-line.

Daylight found them far below Tagish Post.  At nine o’clock Sunday morning they could hear the Flora whistling her departure.  And when, at ten o’clock, they dragged themselves in to the Post, they could barely see the Flora’s smoke far to the southward.  It was a pair of worn-out tatterdemalions that Captain Jones of the Mounted Police welcomed and fed, and he afterward averred that they possessed two of the most tremendous appetites he had ever observed.  They lay down and slept in their wet rags by the stove.  At the end of two hours Churchill got up, carried Bondell’s grip, which he had used for a pillow, down to the canoe, kicked Antonsen awake, and started in pursuit of the Flora.

“There’s no telling what might happen—machinery break down, or something,” was his reply to Captain Jones’s expostulations.  “I’m going to catch that steamer and send her back for the boys.”

Tagish Lake was white with a fall gale that blew in their teeth.  Big, swinging seas rushed upon the canoe, compelling one man to bale and leaving one man to paddle.  Headway could not be made.  They ran along the shallow shore and went overboard, one man ahead on the tow-line, the other shoving on the canoe.  They fought the gale up to their waists in the icy water, often up to their necks, often over their heads and buried by the big, crested waves.  There was no rest, never a moment’s pause from the cheerless, heart-breaking battle.  That night, at the head of Tagish Lake, in the thick of a driving snow-squall, they overhauled the Flora.  Antonsen fell on board, lay where he had fallen, and snored.  Churchill looked like a wild man.  His clothes barely clung to him.  His face was iced up and swollen from the protracted effort of twenty-four hours, while his hands were so swollen that he could not close the fingers.  As for his feet, it was an agony to stand upon them.

The captain of the Flora was loth to go back to White Horse.  Churchill was persistent and imperative; the captain was stubborn.  He pointed out finally that nothing was to be gained by going back, because the only ocean steamer at Dyea, the Athenian, was to sail on Tuesday morning, and that he could not make the back trip to White Horse and bring up the stranded pilgrims in time to make the connection.

“What time does the Athenian sail?” Churchill demanded.

“Seven o’clock, Tuesday morning.”

“All right,” Churchill said, at the same time kicking a tattoo on the ribs of the snoring Antonsen.  “You go back to White Home.  We’ll go ahead and hold the Athenian.”

Antonsen, stupid with sleep, not yet clothed in his waking mind, was bundled into the canoe, and did not realize what had happened till he was drenched with the icy spray of a big sea, and heard Churchill snarling at him through the darkness:—

“Paddle, can’t you!  Do you want to be swamped?”

Daylight found them at Caribou Crossing, the wind dying down, and Antonsen too far gone to dip a paddle.  Churchill grounded the canoe on a quiet beach, where they slept.  He took the precaution of twisting his arm under the weight of his head.  Every few minutes the pain of the pent circulation aroused him, whereupon he would look at his watch and twist the other arm under his head.  At the end of two hours he fought with Antonsen to rouse him.  Then they started.  Lake Bennett, thirty miles in length, was like a millpond; but, half way across, a gale from the south smote them and turned the water white.  Hour after hour they repeated the struggle on Tagish, over the side, pulling and shoving on the canoe, up to their waists and necks, and over their heads, in the icy water; toward the last the good-natured giant played completely out.  Churchill drove him mercilessly; but when he pitched forward and bade fair to drown in three feet of water, the other dragged him into the canoe.  After that, Churchill fought on alone, arriving at the police post at the head of Bennett in the early afternoon.  He tried to help Antonsen out of the canoe, but failed.  He listened to the exhausted man’s heavy breathing, and envied him when he thought of what he himself had yet to undergo.  Antonsen could lie there and sleep; but he, behind time, must go on over mighty Chilcoot and down to the sea.  The real struggle lay before him, and he almost regretted the strength that resided in his frame because of the torment it could inflict upon that frame.

Churchill pulled the canoe up on the beach, seized Bondell’s grip, and started on a limping dog-trot for the police post.

“There’s a canoe down there, consigned to you from Dawson,” he hurled at the officer who answered his knock.  “And there’s a man in it pretty near dead.  Nothing serious; only played out.  Take care of him.  I’ve got to rush.  Good-bye.  Want to catch the Athenian.”

A mile portage connected Lake Bennett and Lake Linderman, and his last words he flung back after him as he resumed the trot.  It was a very painful trot, but he clenched his teeth and kept on, forgetting his pain most of the time in the fervent heat with which he regarded the gripsack.  It was a severe handicap.  He swung it from one hand to the other, and back again.  He tucked it under his arm.  He threw one hand over the opposite shoulder, and the bag bumped and pounded on his back as he ran along.  He could scarcely hold it in his bruised and swollen fingers, and several times he dropped it.  Once, in changing from one hand to the other, it escaped his clutch and fell in front of him, tripped him up, and threw him violently to the ground.

At the far end of the portage he bought an old set of pack-straps for a dollar, and in them he swung the grip.  Also, he chartered a launch to run him the six miles to the upper end of Lake Linderman, where he arrived at four in the afternoon.  The Athenian was to sail from Dyea next morning at seven.  Dyea was twenty-eight miles away, and between towered Chilcoot.  He sat down to adjust his foot-gear for the long climb, and woke up.  He had dozed the instant he sat down, though he had not slept thirty seconds.  He was afraid his next doze might be longer, so he finished fixing his foot-gear standing up.  Even then he was overpowered for a fleeting moment.  He experienced the flash of unconsciousness; becoming aware of it, in mid-air, as his relaxed body was sinking to the ground and as he caught himself together, he stiffened his muscles with a spasmodic wrench, and escaped the fall.  The sudden jerk back to consciousness left him sick and trembling.  He beat his head with the heel of his hand, knocking wakefulness into the numbed brain.

Jack Burns’s pack-train was starting back light for Crater Lake, and Churchill was invited to a mule.  Burns wanted to put the gripsack on another animal, but Churchill held on to it, carrying it on his saddle-pommel.  But he dozed, and the grip persisted in dropping off the pommel, one side or the other, each time wakening him with a sickening start.  Then, in the early darkness, Churchill’s mule brushed him against a projecting branch that laid his cheek open.  To cap it, the mule blundered off the trail and fell, throwing rider and gripsack out upon the rocks.  After that, Churchill walked, or stumbled rather, over the apology for a trail, leading the mule.  Stray and awful odours, drifting from each side of the trail, told of the horses that had died in the rush for gold.  But he did not mind.  He was too sleepy.  By the time Long Lake was reached, however, he had recovered from his sleepiness; and at Deep Lake he resigned the gripsack to Burns.  But thereafter, by the light of the dim stars, he kept his eyes on Burns.  There were not going to be any accidents with that bag.

At Crater Lake, the pack-train went into camp, and Churchill, slinging the grip on his back, started the steep climb for the summit.  For the first time, on that precipitous wall, he realized how tired he was.  He crept and crawled like a crab, burdened by the weight of his limbs.  A distinct and painful effort of will was required each time he lifted a foot.  An hallucination came to him that he was shod with lead, like a deep-sea diver, and it was all he could do to resist the desire to reach down and feel the lead.  As for Bondell’s gripsack, it was inconceivable that forty pounds could weigh so much.  It pressed him down like a mountain, and he looked back with unbelief to the year before, when he had climbed that same pass with a hundred and fifty pounds on his back.  If those loads had weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, then Bondell’s grip weighed five hundred. 

The first rise of the divide from Crater Lake was across a small glacier.  Here was a well-defined trail.  But above the glacier, which was also above timber-line, was naught but a chaos of naked rock and enormous boulders.  There was no way of seeing the trail in the darkness, and he blundered on, paying thrice the ordinary exertion for all that he accomplished.  He won the summit in the thick of howling wind and driving snow, providentially stumbling upon a small, deserted tent, into which he crawled.  There he found and bolted some ancient fried potatoes and half a dozen raw eggs.

When the snow ceased and the wind eased down, he began the almost impossible descent.  There was no trail, and he stumbled and blundered, often finding himself, at the last moment, on the edge of rocky walls and steep slopes the depth of which he had no way of judging.  Part way down, the stars clouded over again, and in the consequent obscurity he slipped and rolled and slid for a hundred feet, landing bruised and bleeding on the bottom of a large shallow hole.  From all about him arose the stench of dead horses.  The hole was handy to the trail, and the packers had made a practice of tumbling into it their broken and dying animals.  The stench overpowered him, making him deadly sick, and as in a nightmare he scrambled out.  Half-way up, he recollected Bondell’s gripsack.  It had fallen into the hole with him; the pack-strap had evidently broken, and he had forgotten it.  Back he went into the pestilential charnel-pit, where he crawled around on hands and knees and groped for half an hour.  Altogether he encountered and counted seventeen dead horses (and one horse still alive that he shot with his revolver) before he found Bondell’s grip.  Looking back upon a life that had not been without valour and achievement, he unhesitatingly declared to himself that this return after the grip was the most heroic act he had ever performed.  So heroic was it that he was twice on the verge of fainting before he crawled out of the hole.

By the time he had descended to the Scales, the steep pitch of Chilcoot was past, and the way became easier.  Not that it was an easy way, however, in the best of places; but it became a really possible trail, along which he could have made good time if he had not been worn out, if he had had light with which to pick his steps, and if it had not been for Bondell’s gripsack.  To him, in his exhausted condition, it was the last straw.  Having barely strength to carry himself along, the additional weight of the grip was sufficient to throw him nearly every time he tripped or stumbled.  And when he escaped tripping, branches reached out in the darkness, hooked the grip between his shoulders, and held him back.

His mind was made up that if he missed the Athenian it would be the fault of the gripsack.  In fact, only two things remained in his consciousness—Bondell’s grip and the steamer.  He knew only those two things, and they became identified, in a way, with some stern mission upon which he had journeyed and toiled for centuries.  He walked and struggled on as in a dream.  As part of the dream was his arrival at Sheep Camp.  He stumbled into a saloon, slid his shoulders out of the straps, and started to deposit the grip at his feet.  But it slipped from his fingers and struck the floor with a heavy thud that was not unnoticed by two men who were just leaving.  Churchill drank a glass of whisky, told the barkeeper to call him in ten minutes, and sat down, his feet on the grip, his head on his knees.

So badly did his misused body stiffen, that when he was called it required another ten minutes and a second glass of whisky to unbend his joints and limber up the muscles.

“Hey not that way!” the barkeeper shouted, and then went after him and started him through the darkness toward Canyon City.  Some little husk of inner consciousness told Churchill that the direction was right, and, still as in a dream, he took the cañon trail.  He did not know what warned him, but after what seemed several centuries of travelling, he sensed danger and drew his revolver.  Still in the dream, he saw two men step out and heard them halt him.  His revolver went off four times, and he saw the flashes and heard the explosions of their revolvers.  Also, he was aware that he had been hit in the thigh.  He saw one man go down, and, as the other came for him, he smashed him a straight blow with the heavy revolver full in the face.  Then he turned and ran.  He came from the dream shortly afterward, to find himself plunging down the trail at a limping lope.  His first thought was for the gripsack.  It was still on his back.  He was convinced that what had happened was a dream till he felt for his revolver and found it gone.  Next he became aware of a sharp stinging of his thigh, and after investigating, he found his hand warm with blood.  It was a superficial wound, but it was incontestable.  He became wider awake, and kept up the lumbering run to Canyon City.

He found a man, with a team of horses and a wagon, who got out of bed and harnessed up for twenty dollars.  Churchill crawled in on the wagon-bed and slept, the gripsack still on his back.  It was a rough ride, over water-washed boulders down the Dyea Valley; but he roused only when the wagon hit the highest places.  Any altitude of his body above the wagon-bed of less than a foot did not faze him.  The last mile was smooth going, and he slept soundly.

He came to in the grey dawn, the driver shaking him savagely and howling into his ear that the Athenian was gone.  Churchill looked blankly at the deserted harbour.

“There’s a smoke over at Skaguay,” the man said.

Churchill’s eyes were too swollen to see that far, but he said: “It’s she.  Get me a boat.”

The driver was obliging and found a skiff, and a man to row it for ten dollars, payment in advance.  Churchill paid, and was helped into the skiff.  It was beyond him to get in by himself.  It was six miles to Skaguay, and he had a blissful thought of sleeping those six miles.  But the man did not know how to row, and Churchill took the oars and toiled for a few more centuries.  He never knew six longer and more excruciating miles.  A snappy little breeze blew up the inlet and held him back.  He had a gone feeling at the pit of the stomach, and suffered from faintness and numbness.  At his command, the man took the baler and threw salt water into his face.

The Athenian’s anchor was up-and-down when they came alongside, and Churchill was at the end of his last remnant of strength. 

“Stop her!  Stop her!” he shouted hoarsely.

“Important message!  Stop her!”

Then he dropped his chin on his chest and slept.  When half a dozen men started to carry him up the gang-plank, he awoke, reached for the grip, and clung to it like a drowning man.

On deck he became a centre of horror and curiosity.  The clothing in which he had left White Horse was represented by a few rags, and he was as frayed as his clothing.  He had travelled for fifty-five hours at the top notch of endurance.  He had slept six hours in that time, and he was twenty pounds lighter than when he started.  Face and hands and body were scratched and bruised, and he could scarcely see.  He tried to stand up, but failed, sprawling out on the deck, hanging on to the gripsack, and delivering his message.

“Now, put me to bed,” he finished; “I’ll eat when I wake up.”

They did him honour, carrying him down in his rags and dirt and depositing him and Bondell’s grip in the bridal chamber, which was the biggest and most luxurious state-room in the ship.  Twice he slept the clock around, and he had bathed and shaved and eaten and was leaning over the rail smoking a cigar when the two hundred pilgrims from White Horse came alongside.

By the time the Athenian arrived in Seattle, Churchill had fully recuperated, and he went ashore with Bondell’s grip in his hand.  He felt proud of that grip.  To him it stood for achievement and integrity and trust.  “I’ve delivered the goods,” was the way he expressed these various high terms to himself.  It was early in the evening, and he went straight to Bondell’s home.  Louis Bondell was glad to see him, shaking hands with both hands at the same time and dragging him into the house.

“Oh, thanks, old man; it was good of you to bring it out,” Bondell said when he received the gripsack.

He tossed it carelessly upon a couch, and Churchill noted with an appreciative eye the rebound of its weight from the springs.  Bondell was volleying him with questions.

“How did you make out?  How’re the boys?  What became of Bill Smithers?  Is Del Bishop still with Pierce?  Did he sell my dogs?  How did Sulphur Bottom show up?  You’re looking fine.  What steamer did you come out on?”

To all of which Churchill gave answer, till half an hour had gone by and the first lull in the conversation had arrived.

“Hadn’t you better take a look at it?” he suggested, nodding his head at the gripsack.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Bondell answered.  “Did Mitchell’s dump turn out as much as he expected?”

“I think you’d better look at it,” Churchill insisted.  “When I deliver a thing, I want to be satisfied that it’s all right.  There’s always the chance that somebody might have got into it when I was asleep, or something.”

“It’s nothing important, old man,” Bondell answered, with a laugh.

“Nothing important,” Churchill echoed in a faint, small voice.  Then he spoke with decision: “Louis, what’s in that bag?  I want to know.”

Louis looked at him curiously, then left the room and returned with a bunch of keys.  He inserted his hand and drew out a heavy Colt’s revolver.  Next came out a few boxes of ammunition for the revolver and several boxes of Winchester cartridges.

Churchill took the gripsack and looked into it.  Then he turned it upside down and shook it gently.

“The gun’s all rusted,” Bondell said.  “Must have been out in the rain.”

“Yes,” Churchill answered.  “Too bad it got wet.  I guess I was a bit careless.”

He got up and went outside.  Ten minutes later Louis Bondell went out and found him on the steps, sitting down, elbows on knees and chin on hands, gazing steadfastly out into the darkness.

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