WITHIN THE CIRCLE
Bill Wilder was squatting on a boulder under cover of the stone-built
fortifications. His rifle was lying in an emplacement overlooking the
waterway below. His grey eyes were pre-occupied, searching the red,
sandy foreshore across the river, which rose gently, baldly, sloping
steadily upwards to the boulder-strewn, serrated skyline beyond.
Chilcoot was seated near by. His rifle lay in another emplacement ready
for immediate use. He was chewing in the thoughtful fashion habitual to
him, even under the greatest stress. He, too, was searching the far side
of the river. His gaze was no less intent. It was the look of a man
whose habit has become that of ceaseless watchfulness.
“I wish I hadn’t let him go now.” Wilder spoke without turning. It was
almost as though he were thinking aloud. “He’s a crazy sort of hot-head
who can’t sit around when ther’s a scrap to be had.”
Chilcoot spat through the loophole with great exactness.
“You don’t need to worry for Mike,” he said, with a short laugh that was
not intended as an expression of mirth. “He’ll get along when he’s
through. Ther’ ain’t the darn Euralian born that could chew him up. He’s
spent the worst part of a rotten bad life doin’ his best to lose it by
every fool play Placer could offer him—an’ failed. I guess a wild-cat’s
a poor sort of circumstance in the matter of lives alongside Mike. I
don’t worry a thing.”
“No.”
The break in their silence closed up at once. Chilcoot took a fresh chew
and wiped the mosquitoes from the back of his neck. Wilder filled his
pipe. The smell of cooking was in the air. There were others lining the
fortifications at every point, and one or two men were moving about the
camp fire behind them. But for all the watch at the outer walls the
place suggested noonday idleness. Even the trail dogs were drowsing in
the shade of the walls.
The Arctic sun shone down out of a cloud-flecked sky on a scene of
barren unloveliness. Long since it had burned up such meagre foliage as
the floods of spring had made possible. The whole country-side was as
bald as an African sand desert. The blaze of miniature spring flowers
had been swept away, and the dried grass was as brown and wiry as the
sparse bristles on the back of some hoary hog. Even the lichens which
flourished on the low, rock formations of which the whole country of
this northern river was composed, were in little better case. Utter
sterility lay in every direction. The desolation, the heat, the flies,
the mosquitoes, these things made for a condition that was well nigh
intolerable.
The camp was set at the far headwaters of Loon Creek. It was nominally a
gold camp; in reality it had little to do with anything but defence. It
was a veritable fortress built out of the millions of storm-worn
boulders that littered the region. A wide, encompassing stone corral,
nearly ten feet high, formed the outer defence, which, in turn,
contained a stout, similarly built citadel which sheltered quarters for
men and dogs, and the stores and gear of the outfit.
Bill Wilder and his men had embarked on their expedition with no greater
concern than had usually been the case when the magic of gold had been
the sole lure. George Raymes had despatched him to these uncharted
regions with a curiosity deeply stirred, but with the gold fever burning
fiercely in his veins. And Wilder had prepared for every emergency, but
always with a smile of deprecation for the extent of the war-like stores
which the police officer insisted were absolutely necessary. Now he was
more than thankful for the foresight of the man who had some twenty-five
years of police experience behind him.
He was under no illusion now after a year of this deplorable territory.
None of the men with him had any illusion either. The lure of gold may
have been the original inspiration with them, but from the moment of
embarking upon the waters of Loon Creek it had been swept from their
minds in the fight for their very existence that was swiftly forced upon
them. For all they only contemplated the pursuit of a legitimate calling
in their own Canadian territory they found themselves cut off by many
hundreds of miles from all help in a country peopled by a race of beings
who were furiously hostile.
All through the previous summer the war had been waged. It had been a
heart-breaking guerilla warfare that knew no cessation. The mysterious
enemy seemed to be waiting for them at every possible point along the
river, and in each and every case the resulting fight was of that
comparatively long range character that was more irritating than
disastrous.
The Euralians were past masters in the art of challenging Wilder’s
progress. They never offered a pitched battle. They attacked at a
distance with rifle and soft-nosed bullet, and the pin-pricking of it
was like the maddening attacks of the swarming mosquitoes. The whole
thing was amazingly well-calculated. There was no respite, there was not
a moment in which the creek could be adequately explored for gold. The
expedition was forced to defence almost every hour of the unending
daylight.
In this fashion, during the first summer, the headwaters of the creek
had been reached. But they had been reached with barely time to build
winter quarters before the freeze up and the long night of winter
descended upon the world.
With the closing in of the Arctic night hostilities ceased as far as the
human enemy was concerned. The Euralians fled before the overwhelming
forces which Nature was about to turn loose. Perhaps they understood the
terror which the intruders would be forced to endure on these barren
lands where shelter was unknown. Perhaps they considered it sufficient.
Perhaps they feared for themselves the ferocity of the Arctic night.
Doubtless they were simply satisfied that their prey was held fast, a
helpless prisoner within the walls of the stronghold he had set up in
defence, and was powerless to operate in any of the desired directions.
At any rate Wilder was left unmolested in the grip of the northern man’s
natural enemy.
It had been a desperate time in which the intensity of cold was the
least of many hardships. Fuel had been scarce enough, but sufficient
driftwood and masses of dried lichen had been collected to make life
possible. So the expedition had endured through alternating periods of
snow-storm and blizzard, when the blackness of the northern night could
well-nigh be felt. Then had come those brilliant intervals of starlight
when the twilight grew under the splendour of a blazing aurora, and the
temperature dropped, dropped till the depths of cold seemed illimitable.
It was in these extremities that the whiteman displayed his right to his
position in the scheme of life. An iron discipline ruled the camp, and
never for a moment was it relaxed. Never was the mind permitted to drift
from the appointed labours. Storm or calm it was the same. For Bill
Wilder, and Chilcoot, and even the hot-head, Red Mike knew that it was
work, or the complete disintegration of the will to endure, which, in
turn, would mean disruption and final disaster to the whole of their
outfit.
So desperate was the interminable winter that every man of the outfit
welcomed the deluge of spring with its promptly swarming flies and
mosquitoes, and the reopening of hostilities with their almost unseen
human enemy. Within a month summer was upon them, and the previous
summer’s battle was again in full swing. So it had gone on. And now at
last the wear and futility of it all was beginning to have its effect.
The expedition had endured for a year under conditions almost
unendurable. And during the whole of that period not one single detail
of its original purpose had been achieved.
Gold? It was the last thing in their thoughts now. And as for the
Euralians, with whom they had been in fighting contact for at least half
the time, their identity, their personality was the same sealed book to
Wilder that it had been before he had listened to their story from the
lips of George Raymes. They had never yet made one single prisoner, or
possessed themselves of the slain body of a single victim of their
rifles. No member of the outfit had as yet more than a rifle shot view
of these savages, who so skilfully avoided contact while yet prosecuting
their warfare.
Chilcoot regarded his leader and friend with eyes that twinkled for all
they were serious.
“No. Not for him,” he said provocatively.
Wilder lit his pipe. Then he reached out and opened the breech of his
rifle to let the air pass through the fouled barrel.
“Guess that’s a qualification,” he said regarding the weapon in his
hand.
“Sure,” Chilcoot again laughed shortly. “Ther’s bigger things to worry
for than Red Mike—crazy as he is.”
Wilder nodded. He laid his rifle back in its place with the breech
closed, and a fresh clip of cartridges in its magazine.
“The boys are worrying, an’ it ain’t good. Buck Maberley told me a bunch
of stuff,” the other went on. “But it ain’t the trouble they’re liable
to make. We ken fix that sort o’ junk easy—up here. No. They’ve a
reas’nable grouch though. For once their fool brains are leaking
something better than Placer hooch. I guess they’re askin’ each other
the questions you an’ me have been askin’ ourselves without makin’ a
shout of it. And they’re mostly finding the same answer we get. They’re
guessing if we lie around here about another month, makin’ target
practice for them crazy foreign Injuns we look like takin’ a big chance
of never hitting up against Placer hooch ever again. Which is only
another way o’ sayin’ winter’ll fall on us before we can get back on to
the Hekor, an’ if we’ve the grub we ain’t got the guts to see it
through. You see, it would be kind o’ diff’rent if we’d the colour of
gold to sort of cheer us up. But what spare time those blamed Injuns
leave the boys they spend in panning river dirt for the stuff it never
heard about since ever the world began. An’ they’re sick to death makin’
fools of their better judgment. Curse the skitters.” Again Chilcoot
brushed his hand across his blistered neck and wiped its palm on his
moleskin trouser leg.
Wilder nodded as he, too, strove to rid himself of the insect attacks.
“We’ll have to beat it,” he said with a sigh of regret, but with
decision. “I hate quitting,” he went on a little gloomily. “I wouldn’t
say you’re right, boy, ther’s no gold on this river. But we can’t get
after it right. If the stuff right down here on the river in front of us
ain’t pay dirt I’m all sorts of a sucker. But it don’t matter. These
cursed Euralians have got us dead set so we can’t shake a pan right.
We’re beat. Plumb beat. They got us worried and guessing, which in a
territory like this, means—finished. Man, I’m sick to death of the bald
hummocks and the flies. Another winter up here would get me yeppin’
around like a crazy coyote.”
Chilcoot had turned back to his watch on the river. “Yep,” he agreed,
relieved at his chief’s swift decision. “When’ll we pull out?”
“Right after Red Mike gets back.”
The men continued their vigil in silence for awhile. The contemplation
of retreat, the acknowledgment of defeat were things that affected them
deeply. Both were of a keen fighting disposition. But their inclinations
were coldly tempered by the experience and wisdom which in earlier days
must have been impossible.
“You know, boy,” Wilder went on presently, in the contemplative fashion
of a mind groping, “these Indians have got me guessing harder than I’ve
ever guessed in my life. It’s up to us handing a report to old Raymes
when we get along down. Well, I guess if I was to pass him haf the stuff
jangling around in my head, I’d be liable to get a laugh from our
_superior_ that ’ud make me want to commit murder. These darn neches are
fighting like Prussian Junkers. They’re armed like Bolsheviks. And
they’re using the soft-nosed slugs you’d reckon to find in the hands of
modern Communists. Here they are thousands of miles beyond the reach of
the folk who could hand ’em that stuff. Yet they’ve got it plenty, and
know every darn move in the game played by European armies. Say, it
wouldn’t stagger me to find our fort doused with poison gas.”
Chilcoot spat with unnecessary vigour.
“You’re guessin’ ther’s something white behind ’em?” he said sharply.
“White?” Wilder laughed. He shook his head. “Maybe though,” he said,
“the thing that would best please me just now would be for that
darnation Irishman to bring us in a prisoner. Say, has it hit you we’ve
never got a close sight of these folks. Have you discovered that looking
at results it looks like we’ve never killed one blamed rascal of ’em,
and yet we reckon to carry with us some of the best artists with a rifle
this darned country possesses. We’ve had hundreds of brownfaced targets
for ’em, too. What does it mean? Why just this. Dead or alive these
neches don’t mean us to get a close view of their men. They’re afraid
for a whiteman to—recognise them. Well?” He laughed again. “Say, ther’s
a big play behind this thing, and we haven’t begun to discover it. I’m
not through with it. But I’m going to beat it down to the Hekor right
away, and get a look into it from another angle. Raymes was right. It
looks to me as if the feller who solves the riddle of these—Euralians—is
doing something mighty good for a whiteman’s country. The gold’s quit
worrying me a little bit. Say—”
He broke off and gazed musingly over the glittering waters of the river,
which was visible for miles away to the north in the flat, barren
country through which it meandered.
Chilcoot waited. His friend’s unusual burst of confidence was not a
thing he desired to interrupt. Besides he had voiced much of the thing
that had disturbed his less sensitive mind. So he went on chewing with
his eyes glued to the opposite shore.
“You know, boy, we’d have done well to have kept touch with that dandy
Kid we found at the mouth of the Caribou,” Wilder continued. “I’ve the
notion that bright girl was wiser to the things up this way than that
factor feller. An’ certainly wiser than George Raymes. She said she was
born an’ raised on the river. I wonder. I guess I’ve been wondering ever
since. You know there’s more to this play of ours than gold, an’
Euralians an’ things. There’s a ‘girl child—white.’ You remember?”
Chilcoot’s eyes were grinning into the other’s face as Wilder broke off.
He nodded.
“Sure I do. She’s surely a dandy Kid,” he said.
His grin passed, and seriousness replaced it.
“But she’d got six brothers an’ sisters an’ a mother, an’ I don’t
remember that Raymes said a word about them. You were feelin’ particular
not to ast questions of her. Well, I guess it was a pity. Ben Needham
never passed us a hint of her, either. Say, this is the queerest darn
country. It hides up a whole heap of queer things. Guess it’s that gets
hold of us mutts who waste precious years trying to beat it. We can
locate that Kid passing down river, though. An’ maybe you’ll feel less
a’mighty delicate astin’ questions.”
“Yes. I fixed to do that.”
“I guessed so. I—Say, ther’s Mike beating it for home.”
Chilcoot stood up as he spoke and leant over the hot stone parapet. He
was searching the canoe which had suddenly appeared driving down the
sluggish stream from the north.
Wilder, too, had risen to his feet. He was looking for the desired
prisoner in the boat. He counted the occupants. There were four. Only
four. And that was the number the Irishman had set out with. No. There
was no prisoner. The men in the boat were all whitemen. There could be
no doubt about it. Nor was there any sign of a wounded man lying in the
bottom of the little craft.
“The same old story,” Wilder grumbled.
“Meaning?”
“They’re coming back empty—Gee!”
A shot rang out. It was followed by another and another. The men at the
fort saw the water splash about the canoe where the bullets took effect.
But the boat came on through the sudden hail, and the men at the paddles
remained unscathed.
“That’s Indian shooting,” Chilcoot exclaimed contemptuously. Then in a
tone of deep regret. “If those guys would only give our boys such a
target.”
“That’s so.” Bill stood with his rifle ready, waiting for a sign of the
lurking enemy. “That boat would never make the bank if it was full of
Euralians. It makes you think they aren’t yearning to kill. Only to
worry. Come on. Let’s go down and get Mike’s news.”
Wilder’s outfit was lying moored and camped at the mouth of Loon Creek
where its waters debouched on the broad course of the Hekor. The barrens
were left far behind, and these men had come again to a country where
shade from the blistering sunlight was to be found in occasional bluffs
of forest, and where there was complete rest from the curiously
unnerving warfare they had so long endured.
The camp was pitched on a great spit of land supporting a dwarfed,
windswept bluff of forest trees. The shade from the burning sun was more
than welcome for all the haunting mosquitoes made it their camping
ground too. Great smudge fires of dank vegetation and lichen had been
lit, and, for the moment, even insect hostilities had ceased. The canoes
had been safely stowed for the night, and the men sat around in the
drifting smoke after their supper, while the trail dogs prowled in
search of any refuse which the meal of their human masters provided.
For all it was night, and rest and sleep lay ahead, the sun had only
changed its position in the sky and daylight was unabated. It might have
been high noon from the unshadowed brilliance of the world about them.
As Red Mike had once said in his graphic complaining: “God A’mighty
created the summer sun, but the Divil set it afire to burn everlastin’
north of 60 degrees.”
The three leaders were squatting on their outspread blankets in the
shade cast by a small clump of storm-driven spruce. They were
luxuriating in the smoke of three smudge fires set triangularly about
them. Each was clad as lightly as circumstances would permit. Cotton
shirts and hard moleskin trousers belted about their waists was all and
more than sufficient. Their arms and chests were bare. Each man was
smoking a reeking pipe, and a curiously fascinating, somnolent
atmosphere prevailed over the camp. It was the quiet of physical repose
after heavy labour, intensified by the Nature sounds which are never
absent in the northern wilderness.
Red Mike chuckled in his irrepressible fashion, and Wilder and Chilcoot
turned their reflective eyes inquiringly on his grinning countenance.
“Say, it’s a night—if you can call it night with hell’s own sun burning
blisters on the water—for rejoicin’,” he said. “Is it a drop o’ the
stuff you’re goin’ to open, Bill Wilder? Or has the water wagon got you
still tied to its tail? Man, I could drink the worst home-brew ever came
out of a prohibition State.”
Wilder hunched himself up with his hands locked about his knees, and a
faint smile of derision lit his steady eyes. “Rejoicing?” he said. “I
don’t get you, Mike.”
The Irishman’s blue eyes widened good-humouredly. “Ther’s folks never
made to rec’nize the time for rejoicin’, ’less it’s set for ’em by
politician-made law. It seems to me I remember the time when Bill Wilder
didn’t need the other feller to learn him that way. Say, we come down
that mud-bottomed creek nigh two-hundred an’ fifty mile without a shot
fired. From the moment we broke that crazy camp we set up to hold our
place on the map of this fool country them Euralians quit us cold. Guess
they said, ‘The gophers are on the run, let ’em beat it. They’re
quittin’, an’ we ain’t got time worritin’ with quitters.’ So they handed
us an elegant sort o’ Sunday School picnic passin’ down stream, makin’
twenty-five a day without puttin’ the weight of a fly on the paddles.
Well? Ain’t it time fer rejoicin’? Here we are right back in a territory
that looks almost good to me after those blazin’ barrens we left behind.
We’re right back with whole skins by courtesy of a bunch of dirty
neches.” He laughed again. “It’s sure time to—celebrate.”
It was Chilcoot who replied to him. And his retort came in the sharp
tones of a man unable to appreciate the raillery of the Irishman.
“We ain’t quittin’ them neches,” he said, his deep-set eyes snapping.
“Guess our work’s only started. But you’re right. It’s time to rejoice
_when we quit_, which won’t be this side of winter. If you’d hoss sense
you’d know we’re out-fitted for—three years. Guess Bill here ain’t
openin’ any old corks till we’re through.”
Mike sobered on the instant. He turned to Wilder.
“What comes next, boss?” he asked shortly.
Wilder nodded his head towards the great hills in the west.
“The Hekor, Mike,” he said seriously. “Ther’s no home run yet. There’s
nearly four months to the freeze up, an’ we pull out of here, west,
after we’ve slept. We’re making west to the headwaters, an’ to get a
look at the hill country. Ther’s gold around somewhere, and there are
those neches—as you choose to call ’em. We aren’t ‘quitting’ till we
know more about both.”
* * * * *
It was a scene which years before other eyes had gazed upon. It was the
canyon of the Grand Falls where the Hekor fell off the highlands of the
Alaskan hills. Wilder and his men were ashore at the only landing
available, and again it was a landing which had been used by another
years before.
The gold man and his fellows were fascinated by the tremendous grandeur
of the canyon, with the dull roar of great waters coming back to them
out of the dense clouds of spray which enveloped the far distance of the
straight hewn rift down which the surge of dark waters rushed.
“We can’t make that stuff,” Chilcoot demurred, his eyes on the turbulent
race of water which the canyon disgorged.
“We aren’t going to attempt it.” Wilder shrugged. He turned to Mike who
stood gazing out into the far distance absorbed by the magnificence
which so deeply appealed to his Gallic imagination.
“We got to see the thing lying back of those Falls,” he said pointing.
“Will you make it, Mike? Will you make it with Chilcoot and me? We can
leave camp to Buck Maberley. He can handle the boys good, and you can
put it up to him. I guess it means a portage up there. Then—Well, who
knows? Maybe we’ll be back here in two weeks. Maybe two months. I’ve got
a notion, and I’ve got to put it through. That territory out there is
Alaskan, and I want to get a look. Are you falling for it? I want the
answer right now. I’m guessing all the time. I don’t know a thing. But
I’ve got to get a look back of those Falls. Well?”
Mike’s gaze remained on the distance. The fascination of it refused to
release him. He replied without turning.
“Sure boss,” he said simply. Then he added whimsically “I’ll fall for
water—like that.”
And Chilcoot laughed. Even he found the frank admission of the
red-headed creature’s weakness irresistible.