THE AVALANCHE.
It was late in the day that the little steamer arrived at Dyea, which
was found to be a village with one log store, a number of movable
tents, and without any wharf, the beach being so flat that at high
water the tide reaches a half mile or more inland. To guard against
losing any of their supplies, Tim McCabe told his friends that it would
be necessary to unload them themselves.
"From this p'int," said he, "we must hoe our own row; under hiven we
must depind on oursilves. Hardman, lind a hand there, and step lively."
To the astonishment of the youths, the man took hold and wrought with
right good will. Jeff looked at Tim queerly as he pointed out the
different articles, he himself, as may be said, overlooking the job;
but the conclusion was that the Irishman had promised him a small
amount for his help. When, however, the task was finished Tim came to
the group, and while Hardman, with shamefaced expression, remained in
the background, he said with that simplicity which any one would find
hard to resist:
"You see poor Hardman is in bad luck; he hain't any outfit, and wants
to go to the gold fields, but will have to git some one to stake him.
Obsarving the same, I made bowld to remark that it would give me frind
Jiff the highest plisure to do it for him, not forgetting to obsarve
that I knew his company would be agreeable to the byes, and he will be
of great hilp to the same."
"Well, I'm blessed!" exclaimed the old miner, removing his hat and
mopping his forehead with his big red handkerchief. Then he turned half
way round and looked steadily at the fellow, who was standing with his
head down.
"Poor dog! let him come along, but if he makes any trouble, I'll hold
you responsible, Tim."
"And I'll be happy to take charge of the same 'sponsibility, and if he
don't toe the mark, it's mesilf that will make him. Do you hear that,
Ike?" he roared, turning fiercely toward the fellow, who started, and
meekly replied that he heard, though it was impossible for anything to
reach him except the last thunderous demand.
"It isn't for us to say anything," remarked Roswell aside to his chum,
"but that means trouble for us all."
"It surely does; we must be on our guard against him."
The outfits were piled on a sandspit about a mile below the trading
posts of Healy and Wilson. In the foreground were the ranch and store
owned by them, and beyond towered the coast mountains, their tops
gleaming in the sunshine with enormous masses of snow, while hundreds
of miles still beyond stretched the immense Yukon country, toward which
the eyes of the civilized world are turned at the present time.
One of the strange facts connected with Alaska and the adjoining region
is that in May the sun rises at 3 o'clock and sets at 9, while in June
it rises at 1.30 and sets at 10.30. Thus the summer day is twenty hours
long, and it has a diffuse twilight. The change from winter to summer
is rapid, winter setting in in September, and in the Klondike region
zero weather lasts from November to May, though at times the weather
moderates early in March, but does not become settled until May. The
Yukon generally freezes shut in the latter part of October, and breaks
up about the middle of May, when the western route to the gold fields
by the river becomes practicable.
The hour was so late when our friends had finished carrying their
outfit beyond reach of the high tide, which rises twenty feet at Dyea,
that they lodged and took their meals at the ranch trading post. By
arrangement, an early breakfast was eaten the next morning, and the
goods were loaded upon the two Yukon sleds with which they were
provided. These were seven feet long, sixteen inches wide, and were
shod with steel. Other gold-seekers were stopping, like themselves, at
the ranch, but they lagged so much that when the men and boys headed
northward they were alone.
Jeff Graham and Ike Hardman passed the rope attached to one of the
sleds over their shoulders, the elder in advance, and led off. Tim took
the lead, with the boys behind him, with the second sled, following the
trail left by their friends. The deep snow was packed so hard that no
use was made of the snow-shoes which Jeff had provided.
From Dyea the trail led for five miles over the ice, when they reached
the mouth of the cañon. This is two miles long with an average width of
fifty feet. The sleds were dragged over the strong ice, but later in
the season, when it breaks up, travellers are obliged to follow the
trail to the east of the cañon.
The party were so unaccustomed to this kind of labor that they found it
exhausting. Curiously enough, Jeff bore the fatigue better than any.
His iron muscles were the last to yield, and he was the first to resume
the journey. He chaffed the others, and offered to let them mount his
sled while he pulled them.
Beyond the cañon is a strip of woods three miles in length, which bears
the name of Pleasant Camp, though it has not the first claim to the
name. It does not contain the ruins of even a cabin or shanty--nothing,
in fact, but trees, through which the wintry winds sough and howl
dismally. There the party halted, ate lunch, rested for an hour, and
then set out with the determination to make the next camping ground
before night.
The ascent now became gradual, and before the day was spent they
arrived at Sheep Camp, on the edge of the timber. This is the last spot
where wood for fuel can be obtained until the other side of Chilkoot
Pass is reached. The tent was pitched on top of the snow, the poles and
pins being shoved down into it. Jeff took it upon himself to cut what
fuel was needed, gathering at the same time a liberal quantity of
hemlock brush, upon which to spread their blankets for beds.
Since it was necessary to use the stove, and it must rest on the snow,
a simple arrangement provided against trouble from the melting of the
latter. Three poles, eight feet in length, were laid parallel on the
snow and the stove placed upon them. Although a hole was soon dissolved
beneath, the length of the supports kept the stove upright.
[Illustration: THE TENT POLES WERE SHOVED DOWN INTO THE SNOW.]
The experience which Jeff and Tim had had made them both excellent
cooks, which was a fortunate thing for the boys, since they would have
made sorry work in preparing a meal; but the art of the Irishman
deserved the many compliments it received. With the aid of baking
powder he prepared a goodly number of light, flaky biscuit, and by
exposing some of the butter to the warmth of the stove, it was
gradually changed from its stone-like hardness to a consistency that
permitted it to be cut with a knife and spread upon the hot bread. The
coffee was amber, clear, and fragrant, and with the condensed milk and
sugar would have reflected credit upon the _chef_ of any establishment.
In addition, there were fried bacon and canned corn.
Until this time the boys had never believed they could eat bacon, but
nothing could have had a more delicious flavor to them. It was not
alone because of their vigorous appetites, but partly on account of the
bitterly cold weather. There is a good deal of animal heat evolved in
the digestion of fat bacon, and it is therefore among the favorite
articles of food in the Arctic regions.
Probably there isn't a boy in the country who would not revolt at the
thought of eating a tallow candle, and yet if he was exposed to the
rigors of Greenland and the far north, he would soon look upon it as
one of the greatest delicacies of the table.
The hemlock branches were now spread on top of the snow at the side of
the tent, a large square of canvas was placed over them, upon which the
blankets and robes were put, the whole forming a springy, comfortable
bed.
Roswell and Frank were sure that in all their lives they were never so
tired. Leaving the three men to talk and smoke, they stretched out on
their blankets, wrapping themselves in them, and almost immediately
sank into deep, dreamless slumber.
The sleep had lasted perhaps a couple of hours, when, without any
apparent cause, Frank Mansley awoke in the full possession of his
senses. Lying motionless, he listened to the soft breathing of his
cousin beside him, while the regular respiration of the men left no
doubt of their condition. Everything around was in blank, impenetrable
darkness and all profoundly still.
"It's strange that I should awake like this," he thought, slightly
shifting his position. "I'm tired, and was so drowsy that I felt as if
I could sleep a week, but I was never wider awake than I am this
minute--"
Amid the all-pervading silence he was sensible of a low, solemn murmur,
like that of the distant ocean. At first it seemed to be the "voice of
silence" itself, but it steadily increased in volume until its roar
became overpowering. Startled and frightened, he lay still, wondering
what it could mean, or whether his senses were deceiving him. Then he
suddenly remembered the vast masses of ice and snow which towered above
them all through the day. He recalled the stories he had read of the
glaciers and avalanches, and how Tim McCabe had referred to them as
sometimes overtaking travellers in this part of the world.
He knew what it meant, and, leaping from his couch, he shouted:
"Wake up! Quick! An avalanche is upon us!"