WHAT HAPPENED ON CAMERON CREEK
Connie Morgan laid aside his year-old magazine and stepped to the
door of the little police cabin, perched upon the verge of a high
bank of the Yukon. At the foot of the steep descent Sergeant
McKeever stood in a canoe and finished buttoning the canvas cover
over the deck of the light speed boat that lay anchored a few feet
out from the bank. Then, still standing, he paddled ashore and drew
the canoe from the water.
Connie thrust a pan of baking-powder biscuits into the oven of the
sheet-iron stove, drew the coffee-pot forward, poked some bull-pine
sticks into the stove, and sliced bacon into a blackened frying-pan.
A few moments later, through a blue haze of bacon-smoke, he greeted
the officer who stooped to enter the low door:
"Hi, Dan! Just in time for supper--didn't expect you till midnight."
The Sergeant grinned: "Can't make me mad with supper--I'm hungry as a
grizzly--Come clean through from Dawson without a stop."
"What's your hurry? But, come on, let's eat first. You can tell me
the news later."
The two ate heartily, and in silence. For, with the men of the open
places, a meal is a matter of serious business, rather than a social
event. Also, in silence, they washed the dishes, and sought the log
that answered the double purpose of door-step and chopping-block.
The scene before them was one of infinite grandeur. The
long-gathering twilight of an early summer night enfolded the wide
valley of the Yukon in a mantle of exquisite softness. Beyond,
jumbled and blurred in the indistinct half-light, rose the dark,
timbered foot-hills of the great white range to the eastward. And
still beyond, rearing its naked crags and gilded pinnacles above the
shadowed foreground, rose the great range itself--all bright and
flashing many-coloured lights--like the turrets, and spires, and
battlements of a wonderful city of gold. For the rays of the
low-swung sun, withdrawn a full two hours from the valley, shone
directly upon the ice-peaks, so that fairyland seemed to leap in full
glory from the black pall of night. For many minutes the two
officers of the Mounted gazed, speechless, upon the sight.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful!" breathed the boy.
"Yes, son, it's wonderful," answered Sergeant McKeever, softly.
"Us--up here in the North--we ain't got many of what you might call
luxuries, but, son--" he pointed toward the gilded mountains, "seems
like God more'n makes it up to us, with sights like _that_, an' the
aurora, an'----"
"I love it all!" exclaimed the boy, "it's so big, and free, and
grand! I love even the cold, and the white snow-levels, and the
roaring rapids, and the grinding ice! Why, I wouldn't live back
there," his hand swept the southern horizon, "for all the money in
the world!"
"No, son--you won't go back," said McKeever, gravely, "the big North
has got you. You're a sure enough _tillicum_--an' you can't go
back!" The Sergeant paused, and his next observation drew the boy's
mind from the beauties of nature to the affairs of the world of men.
"I seen Bill Cosgrieve in Dawson."
Now, Bill Cosgrieve was known as "The King of Cameron Creek," and
Cameron Creek enjoyed an unsavoury reputation among the
law-abiding--and, the more unsavoury became its reputation, the more
Cameron Creek enjoyed it.
In the days of the great gold rush, the camp of Two Prong flourished
on the site of old Jimmie Ferguson's rich placer strike. But the
sand was only shallow drift, the placers ran out, and, as a
disgruntled miner told it: "Two Prong jes' na'ch'ly flourished itself
plumb down to bed rock, an' blow'd up." One by one, the cabins were
deserted as their owners sought other fields, or followed fresh
stampedes. Freight-loaded poling-boats, and light bark canoes no
longer ascended the creek, and in the winter, snow lay deep over its
valley. But Cameron Creek was not entirely deserted. Two or three
of the rotting cabins of Two Prong were still tenanted, and in the
long, log room that had once been the N.C. Company's store, old Jap
Kinkade kept a few shelves of canned goods, and a dejected assortment
of mittens, tobacco, and clothing. And, above Two Prong, strung
along the whole length of its hundred miles of mountain windings,
were the isolated cabins of trappers, and old-time prospectors who
may be found in the hills about the head-waters of any placer creek,
hammering and chipping their lives away in vain search for that
will-o'-the-wisp of the prospector's dreams--the mother lode.
Possibly twenty white men, all told, and a band of half-starved
Indians, who dwelt near the head waters, comprised the population of
Cameron Creek--and these were they who enjoyed, and encouraged the
disrepute into which the valley had fallen. For the trappers of fur
desire solitude and bear no love for the miners, whose noisy camps,
detonating blasts, and creaking windlasses drive the fur-bearers to
the fastness of far hills. The lean, distant-eyed prospectors for
the mother lode desire solitude. And the Indians upon the
head-waters--well, nobody cares what they desire. So Cameron Creek
enjoyed her unsavoury repute.
"What was Bill Cosgrieve doing in Dawson?" asked Connie, as the big
Sergeant showed no disposition to further enlighten him.
"Spendin' money."
"Wonder if he's made a strike. Guess not, though. When Cameron
Creek blew up, she blew right."
"I said _money_," affirmed the Sergeant, "not dust."
The boy's shoulders straightened with interest. "You mean--treaty
money?"
The older man shrugged: "It was paid on the first. Guess you an'
me'd better jest slip up Cameron Creek an' have a look at them there
aborigines."
Although Constable Morgan and Sergeant McKeever left the speed boat
anchored in front of the little police cabin, crossed the river, and
slipped down the ten intervening miles to the mouth of Cameron Creek
in a canoe, under cover of darkness, they knew before they had
proceeded five miles up the creek, that word of their coming had
preceded them. A mile in advance, a couple of eagles rose in swift
spirals, and numerous flocks of startled ducks whizzed past in their
flight to the big river. Also, the path of a short portage across
the neck of a horseshoe bend was wet, where a canoe had been dragged
from the water, and the scar of its relaunching was plain in the clay
of the upriver end.
"Moccasin telegraph!" growled McKeever, "can you beat it?"
[Illustration: "Constable Morgan and Sergeant McKeever knew that word
of their coming had preceded them."]
Twelve miles above the mouth, where the deserted cabins of Two Prong
straggled along the bank, the officers landed and banged upon the
door of old Jap Kinkade's store.
"What's wanted?" queried a petulant voice. "Can't ye give a man time
to git up?"
"Oh, can that rot, Jap! I'm hep to you--I'm McKeever." The door
opened and the ill-kempt old man blinked sleepily.
"Somethin' ye wanted?" he inquired, sourly.
"Breakfast," answered McKeever.
"This ain't no _hotel_. This here's a store," growled the proprietor.
"Never you mind about that. You cook breakfast--an' do it _pronto_.
An' while you're doin' it you can tell me who's be'n here this
mornin'."
"Wha' d' ye mean--be'n here? Ain't I jes' got up? Youse is the
firs' ones I've see. 'Pears to me ye're almighty early, too. What's
up?" The little eyes of the old man leered wickedly, as he threw
some bacon into a frying-pan.
"You're lyin', Jap. Some day I'm goin' to have the fun of squintin'
at you through the bars, at Dawson----"
"'Tain't no crime to lay a-bed till four in the mornin'. Not as I've
heerd tell, it ain't," sneered the man.
"Who's be'n here, I said?" snapped McKeever, ignoring the
interruption.
"Ef any one's be'n here, they've passed on. I ain't saw no one--but
my eyesight ain't no good no more--'special, when I'm asleep."
"Where's Cosgrieve?"
Again the little eyes leered wickedly: "Ef ye don't know, ye mout
step acrost to his cabin, an' ef he ain't there, ye mout take a guess
at it. How'd ye s'pose I know where Cosgrieve's at. Dang him!
He----"
"He, _what_?" asked McKeever, quickly. But the other only eyed him
insolently.
"He what! He what!" mocked the old man. "Ye talk like a jackass.
He what--he what--he haw--he haw!"
McKeever curbed his wrath, and the two officers ate in silence, while
old Jap glared malevolently from his seat on the pine counter. When
they arose to go the old man followed them to the door: "Toddle along
up the crick an' have a look at ye're dear Injuns. See ef some of
'em's be'n stole by us Cameron Crickers. An' then toddle back an'
climb in ye're canoe an' report to Dawson that all's well--like ye
allus do. Ye're a smart bunch--youse Mounteds is--but ye ain't the
ondly smart folks in the world--Ta-ta!"
"I'll get that old scoundrel yet!" gritted McKeever. "They's
somethin' crooked about this whole blame creek--but we've never be'n
able to hang anythin' _on_ 'em."
Above Two Prong the water was too fast for canoe work, so the
officers took the foot trail that followed its banks. For three days
they pushed onward and upward, stopping in every cabin along the
trail for a chat with the surly, close-mouthed trappers and
prospectors. But nothing did they see that could possibly be
construed as "crooked," except the interminable windings of the
creek, itself, and so they came to the camp of the Indians. The
chief, a lazy, ragged, no-account, who went by the name of
Four-Bits-And-A-Thin-Dime, greeted the policemen civilly enough, and
motioned them to a seat upon a bearskin in front of his tepee.
"Any complaints?" asked McKeever. The Indian shook his head.
"No."
"Get your treaty money all right?"
The chief nodded: "Um-hum."
"Where is it?" This last question came as a surprise. The chief
looked nonplussed for a moment.
"Got some lef. De young men, she tak' de res' down to buy de grub."
"Where?"
"Me not know--mebbe-so, Coal Creek--Buxton--Forty-mile--mebbe-so Jap
Kinkade."
"What's the use of lyin'? Get up! I'm goin' to search every tepee
in the village. The young men bought fire-water with it--an' you
did, too! An' you bought it of Cosgrieve!"
The Indian smiled and shrugged, and followed behind while McKeever
and Connie searched the lodges and found nothing.
"Wish I could talk to them squaws," mused McKeever, "but they can't
understand no English--let alone talk it. I guess it's goin' to be
the same old story. It's the moccasin telegraph does it--everyone on
Cameron knows we're comin' soon as we hit the mouth, an' time we get
to Two Prong, the whole creek's good as a Sunday-school before
Christmas."
In silence, the two made their way out of the encampment and down the
creek. At the end of an hour, Connie spoke:
"Dan, you've always used this trail, haven't you--and the rest of the
boys, too--when they've visited Cameron Creek?"
"Sure, it's the only trail they is."
"Well, maybe," assented Connie, "but suppose it isn't? The valley is
anywhere from a quarter- to a half-mile wide. Maybe there is
something we might find along the edges. We've got lots of time,
let's each take a side and work along the foot of the hills----"
"Time!" exclaimed McKeever, "I'd stay here all summer, if I thought
we could clean up this gang! That's a good idee. The goin's a-goin'
to be rough, an' it mightn't do no good--but it won't do no harm.
The first one to get to Jap's waits for the other. An' if we want
one another, here's the signals: two quick shots an' one fifteen
seconds later means, come a-runnin'. One shot first, an' then two
quick ones means, come cautious, look for trouble."
"I got you," assented Connie; "I'll tackle the left bank, and you
take the right--So long!"
"So long!" cried McKeever, and both turned from the trail.
The valley was a quarter of a mile wide at the point where they
separated, the ground rising gently from the bed of the creek to the
base of almost perpendicular rock walls. Connie worked his way to
the foot of the rock ledge and headed down stream, picking his way
among boulders and through thickets of spruce and of aspen, and
tangles of underbrush which, in many places, grew so thick that the
boy was forced to chop his way through with his camp axe, to emerge
onto a stretch of bare rock where the footing was good. But, on rock
or in the timber, Connie's eyes were always busy, searching the
ground for sign, and the timber and rock wall for a hidden _cache_,
or a trail leading into the hills. It was slow, hard work, darkness
overtook him upon the edge of a thin strip of stunted timber, and he
spread his blankets beside a tiny spring that welled up between the
roots of a banskian. He made no fire, but ate _charqui_ and cold
biscuits which he washed down with water from the spring.
It was darker here than in the wide valley of the Yukon, and the high
walls shut out the view of the sunshine on distant peaks. Suddenly,
the boy's eyes caught the flicker of a light through the trees. All
thought of sleep vanished and, looking to his Service revolver in its
holster at his belt, he gripped his camp axe, threw himself face
downward, and began to wriggle toward the light, pausing every few
seconds to listen. But the valley was silent as the grave, and
presently, peering through the underbrush, he made out the outlines
of a cabin, from whose uncurtained window shone a bright square of
candlelight. Slowly and cautiously, he edged forward: "If they've
got dogs I'm up against it," he muttered, and tightened his grip on
his axe. A small clearing surrounded the cabin--so small that
although Connie lay concealed by the underbrush, the window was only
twenty-five feet distant. "If there are dogs, so much the worse for
the dogs," he gritted, and crawling into the open, wriggled swiftly
to the wall of the cabin. From within came the voices of men, but
strain his ears as he would, he could not catch their words, and
dared not risk showing his face at the window. Cautiously he
explored the wall with his fingers. The rough logs were chinked with
moss, and Connie drew the sheath knife from his belt. Carefully he
picked and prodded at the moss chinking, removing it shred by shred
from between the logs. Being ignorant of the positions of the men,
he did not dare punch the moss inward. As the chinking thinned, the
voices became more distinct, and at length the boy placed his eye to
a tiny hole through which filtered a single ray of candlelight.
There were two men in the room--one he could not see, the other was a
shaggy man who sat beside the stove and smoked a pipe. The man out
of line was speaking and Connie applied his ear to the crevice.
"--never found out nawthin' yet, an' they never won't, neither. Bill
Cosgrieve's a heap too smart fer them geezers."
"Ye say they searched the Injin camp, an' went on down the crick?"
"Searched every blame wigwam, an' nary a find. Bowen an' the Swede
had the stuff an' the young bucks _cached_ up a branch where they
c'd a scattered to the high places if needful."
"When'd th' p'lice hike back?"
"This mornin'. Ort to fetch Split Rock tonight, an' Jap's place
tomorry. Ol' Jap's sore on Bill Cosgrieve."
"So much the worse f'r Jap, then. He better haul in his horns an'
not crowd Bill too fer. Bill'll croak him, like he done th'
German----"
"Shet up! Each one of them two has got enough on t'other to swing
'em both. Jap ort to know Bill ain't a-goin' to leave him grab no
more'n what the rest of us gits--" The speaker paused abruptly.
"What's ailin' ye? Hear sunthin'?" Connie's heart thumped almost
audibly as the man delayed his reply.
"Naw, I wuz a-thinkin'. How much stuff has Ol' Jap got in th' shaft?"
"'Bout two hundred gallon."
"Ef we c'd git red of it fer him--unbeknownst to Bill--gimlet it off,
so's he'd think it leaked out----"
"Be y'u a plumb fool?" The voice of the man by the stove held a note
of fear. "Don't y'u never try to double-cross Bill Cosgrieve. Y'u
won't git away with it--an' they'll be another shaft to cave in down
to Two Prong."
"Guess y'u're right--but----"
"Bill, he'll be back tomorry, an' we'll hev a hard day, totin' that
stuff up to th' _cache_. He'll likely fetch four-hundred
gallon--them Injins has got jes' about enough left to pay fer it.
I'm a-goin' to roll in." The shaggy man unlaced a hobnailed boot.
The other crossed to the bunk, and Connie recognized him as Crane,
whom Corporal Rickey had once pointed out to him in Dawson, as a
member of the Cameron Creek gang.
"Bill, he's a wise ol' owl," grinned Crane; "with two of the Mounted
scourin' Cameron Crick, he's a-keepin' the rest a-watchin' him in
Dawson, whilst McCarty an' High Light Hank runs the cargo up
Henderson to the divide. Beats all they ain't no one tumbled to th'
Henderson Crick racket----"
"It's so durn little an' puny lookin'--'tain't more'n eight foot wide
at the mouth--an' comin' out th' way it does, behine that shoulder of
rock. It ain't on no map that I ever see--but she shore is deep!"
The shaggy man blew out the candle, and Connie Morgan wriggled back
into the timber and sought his blanket beside the spring.