THE DEAD SOUL SPEAKS OUT
The Man with the Dead Soul was drunk, heartily and shamelessly drunk;
Granger, the contriver of his condition, sat facing him, impatiently
waiting to see whether that was true which the Indians said, that,
when drink had subdued his body, his soul returned for a little space.
The nominal occasion of the carousal was the home-coming of Eyelids
and, as Granger had subtly put it, "the celebration of his own
entrance into the family of Ericsen." However, in a country from which
there is no means of escape, save through the magic doors of
imagination, and where men get so bored with themselves, and their
environment, and one another, that they are willing to seek a
temporary release by drinking such noxious drugs as pain-killer,
essence of ginger, of peppermint, etc., for the sake of the alcohol
which they contain, the only excuse necessary for intoxication is
opportunity. Spirits of any kind are strictly forbidden in Keewatin,
that the Indians may be protected from intemperance; nevertheless,
despite all precautions of the Mounted Police, a certain quantity
finds its way up in disguised forms, or smuggled in sacks of flour and
bales of traders' merchandise.
Granger, being well aware that the fool says with his lips what the
wise man knows in his heart, had determined that both the menfolk of
his adopted house should play the fool that night. Whatever Beorn and
Eyelids might do or say, and however intoxicated they might become, he
had planned for himself that he would keep quite sober, with his wits
about him, that he might recall next day what they had done and said
when thus taken off their guard. There were two problems which he was
anxious to solve; the first, the reason for his brother-in-law's long
delay; the second, what it was that they watched for with such
eagerness, and waved to at the bend.
The latter problem had become still more perplexing since Eyelids'
return that morning, for in the afternoon, when they were sitting
together outside the shack, he also had seen something down-river,
and, following his father's and sister's example, had risen to his
feet, commenced to wave, and, when it had disappeared, had inquired,
"Who was that fellow?" Straightway Beorn had scowled him into silence,
and Peggy, leaning over, had whispered some words in a Cree-dialect,
which Granger did not understand; whereupon an expression of fear and
wonder had come into Eyelids' face. When Granger, having taken him
apart, had asked him for an explanation, he had only shaken his head
stupidly, saying that he must have been mistaken, and that there was
nothing there. This was manifestly false, for during all the remaining
portion of the daylight his eyes had kept continually furtively
returning down-river towards the bend.
The fact that he also had seen something, did away with Granger's
supposition that it was to her brother, lurking in the vicinity, that
Peggy had signalled with her hand--and made him the more curious to
know the real cause. Could it be Spurling, he wondered, who had made
a compact with them and lay in hiding there? If that was so, then what
had been the reason of Eyelids' delay,--for he had not stayed to
collect any caches of furs, but had come back empty-handed, walking by
the river-bank. He had watched to see whether anyone had put out from
the store to leave provisions at the bend; but no one had been there,
unless at a time when he slept. His passion to share the secret had
become all-consuming, as curiosity must when it works in the mind of a
lonely man. To this end he had shadowed Eyelids all that day, giving
him no opportunity for private talk with his family, and, finally, had
prepared this trap of a drinking-bout, hoping that someone might
commit himself. As yet he had this to his advantage, that the
half-breed, though he had witnessed the signals, was almost as
ignorant as himself as to their real purport, and was therefore,
probably, just as curious.
They were sitting in a room, empty and comfortless, which was built on
to the end of the oblong which comprised the store. Its walls were
damp, and the news-papers, with which they had been covered, sagged
down from the boards like monstrous goitres. It had one window, which
looked riverwards, across whose panes, dust and cobweb smirched, a
muslin curtain had been hung by a previous agent, who was reputed to
have drunk himself to death. This was its only attempt at decoration,
save for a faded photo of a girl attired in early Victorian dress,
across the right-hand corner of which was scrawled, "Yours, with love,
from Gertrude." She looked a good girl, and Granger felt sorry for her
because, by the ordinary laws of nature, she had probably been dead
for many years; and he also felt sorry for her because he was certain
that the man who had placed her picture there had gone away and
disappointed her in her love.
Perhaps he had been the agent who, sitting there night after night,
gazing upon her portrait, torturing himself with memories of the
happiness which he had lost, had drunk himself to death. If that was
so, she had had her revenge. Going closer, he saw that the
photographer's name was recorded there, "Joseph Dean, New Bedford,
Mass." So she had been a New Englander, and her lover, whoever he was,
had probably started life as a sailor in the whaling fleet which at
that time set out annually from New Bedford for the North. In Keewatin
the memories of men for their neighbours, especially if they happen to
be private traders, are very short.
The room contained little furniture. There was a wooden shelf, knocked
together out of packing-cases, which ran along one side of the wall
and had probably done service as a bed. There was an upturned box, on
which a man might seat himself; and a low three-legged stool which
would serve as a table--that was all. In imitation of the no more
lavish accommodation set apart for single men at the Hudson Bay
Company's forts, the room was commonly known as Bachelors' Hall. The
door was fast-shut; the curtain was half-drawn before the window,
shutting out the long-tarrying June twilight; the three men had been
there together for four hours, and as yet nothing of importance had
transpired, and no word had been spoken.
Eyelids, with his lashless lids (hence his sobriquet) half-closed,
squatted on the floor, Indian fashion, directing his pipe to his mouth
with uncertain hand. The other hand fumbled continually in his
breast, as if he kept something hidden there. Granger wondered what it
was.
Beorn sprawled his great length of legs along the shelf, his back and
head resting against the wall. His eyes were very bright, and a long
and ugly scar, which extended from the right of his forehead to his
lower jaw, and which Granger did not remember to have noticed before,
showed swollen and red through the tangled mass of his grey beard. His
pipe also was in his mouth, but his hand was still steady. Under the
influence of drink a new intentness had come into his face, all his
features seemed to be more keen and pointed. Every now and again he
would remove his pipe, as if he were about to break into speech; then,
either through laziness or from the tyranny of his habitual caution,
he would replace it and, as it seemed to Granger, relapse into
memories. He watched him closely, and he thought he saw the elation of
old successes, and emotions of forgotten defeats, flit across his
countenance. Granger himself was quite sober, having only pretended to
drink; if he sat a trifle huddled on his box and lurched unsteadily,
it was only that he might keep his companions unsuspicious.
On the crazy little stool between them stood a candle from which the
wax occasionally dripped, so that for a moment the flame would die
down, causing the shadows to shorten. A jam-jar did service as a
tumbler; there was one between the three of them, which meant that
they had to drink quickly in order not to keep the next man waiting.
Granger served out the whisky, and he served it neat--when men are
intent on getting drunk they do not procrastinate by adding water.
Eyelids was getting more and more peaceful and foolish, smiling first
to himself and then slily to Granger, as though he had some very happy
knowledge which he was burning to communicate. At last he pulled out
his hand from his shirt, and there was something in it. Beorn, raised
three feet from the floor on his shelf, could not see what his son was
doing, nor did he care; he was reliving the past, when there was no
Eyelids.
But Granger watched; the fingers opened a trifle and revealed the
shining of something yellow. Quick as thought, before the fingers
could close over it again, he pretended to lose his balance, and,
shooting out his foot as if to save himself, sent the yellow lump
flying from the half-breed's palm. It shot into the air, fell with a
thud, and rolled scintillating into the darkness across the boarded
floor. Before he could be detained, Granger had sprung after it and
held it in his hand. He faced round, ready to defend himself; but
there was no necessity. Eyelids, having attempted to rise and having
found that his legs would not carry him, had sunk back to his
squatting position on the floor, where he was smiling foolishly and
nodding his head as much as to say, "I've been telling you all
evening, but you would not believe me; now I have proved my word!"
Beorn was sitting upright on his shelf, looking at him keenly. As
Granger approached, he held out his hand; Granger placed the yellow
lump in it.
"Gold," he cried, and his eyes flashed; "a river nugget!" Then
weighing it carefully, "Three ounces," he said; "it's worth about
forty dollars."
"How do you know that?" asked Granger. "Was it river gold that you
found on the Comstock? I thought that it was quartz."
"It was quartz afterwards, but nuggets and dust first." Then,
remembering himself, he asked suspiciously, "But what d'you know about
it?"
"I ought to know something," Granger replied, speaking thickly and
shamming intoxication; "I ought to know something; I was one of the
first men in on the Klondike gold-rush."
"Damn it! So you were one of the Klondike men? Tell me about it."
Granger had intended to spin him a yarn about great bonanzas in Yukon,
which he had discovered. It was to have been a hard-luck tale of
claims which had been stolen, and claims which had been jumped, and
claims which had been given away for a few pounds of flour or slices
of bacon in crises of starvation; but in the presence of the old man's
eagerness, and with the shining nugget of temptation between them, he
drifted unconsciously into straight talk and told him his own true
story.
At first, while he was feeling his way, he gave the history of Bobbie
Henderson, and Siwash George, and Skookum Jim, the real discoverers of
the Klondike; and of how Bobbie Henderson was done out of his share,
so that he still remained a poor man and prospector when others, who
had come into the Yukon years later, had worked their claims, grown
wealthy, and departed. Then he recited the Iliad of the stampede from
Forty-Mile, when the rumour had spread abroad that Siwash George had
found two-dollars-fifty to the pan at the creek which he had named
"Bonanza"; how drunken men were thrown into open boats, and men who
refused to credit the report were bound hand and foot with ropes by
their friends and compelled to go along, lest they should lose the
chance of a lifetime; and how, where to-day Forty-Mile had been a
noisy town, to-morrow it was silent and deserted, with none left save
a few old men and sickly women to tell the story.
To all of this Beorn listened with small attention, for he kept
muttering to himself, "But how did he know that there was gold there?
How did he discover it?" Granger wondered to whom he was referring--to
his own son, to Siwash George, or to someone else; but he dared not
ask him a leading question lest his suspicion should be aroused. He
went on with his narration feverishly, forgetting in his excitement
his resolution to keep sober, emptying the tumbler of whisky
recklessly, turn and turn about with his companion, waiting and
watching to see whether, in the Indian phrase, the dead soul would
return. When he commenced to speak of himself, of his passage from
Skaguay to Dawson, of the wealth which he found and lost at Drunkman's
Shallows, and of his flight, Beorn became interested; his eyes blazed
and every few seconds he would give him encouragement, ejaculating
hoarsely, "Go on. Go on."
So he carried his history to an end with a rush, for now he knew that
the dead soul had come back. He finished with the sentence, "And then
I went to Wrath, for I was nearly starving. 'For God's sake, man, give
me some employment,' I said. 'I can't steal; they'd put me in gaol for
that, and so I should disgrace my mother. And I can't cut throats for
bread, for then I should get hanged. But, if I have to endure this
agony much longer, I shall do both.' And his reply was to send me up
here, to this ice-cold hell of snow and silence, to mind his store and
watch the Last Chance River flowing on and on, until the day of my
death. God curse the reptile and his charity."
The Man with the Dead Soul turned his head aside and there was silence
for a moment. Then, bending down and having assured himself that
Eyelids was asleep. "I've known all that," he said; "but, unlike you,
I did more 'an intend--I killed my man. I guess you an' I are o' one
family now, so there's no harm in tellin'. I don't just remember who
you are, nor how we happen to be here this night; but you placed that
gold in my hand, so I reckon you're all right. You ain't a Mormon, are
you?" he asked abruptly.
Granger, taken aback by the question, smiled slowly and shook his
head.
"Well, then, I'd have you to know," Beorn continued, "that I was
brought up in the Mormon faith. One o' the earliest memories I have is
o' the massacre o' the Latter-Day Saints at Gallatin, when Governor
Boggs issued his order that we should be exterminated an' driven out.
I can still see the soldiery ridin' up an' down, pillagin' our city,
insultin' our womenfolk, an' cuttin' down our men. I can just remember
the misery o' the winter through which we fled, an' the tightness o'
my mother's arms about me as we crossed the Mississippi, goin' into
Illinois for safety. From my earliest childhood my mind has bin made
accustomed to travellin's, an' privations, an' deeds o' blood. That's
the sort o' man I am.
"It was six years after the Gallatin affair, when our city o' Nauvoo
had been founded, that the mob once more rose agin us an' murdered our
prophets, an' placed our lives in danger. Again we fled, crossin' the
Mississippi on the ice, till we gained a breathin' space at Council
Bluffs. A year after that, under Brigham Young, we passed through the
Rockies to the Great Salt Lake an' came to rest. All this persecootion
caused our people to become a hard an' bitter race; but I'd have been
true to 'em if it hadn't bin for my mother, an' the manner o' her
death. How did she die? Don't ask me, for I can't tell you. She was a
Swede, a kind o' white slave, who was kept with several other women by
my father. She went out one day, an' never came back. I believe she'd
got heartsick, an' was plannin' t' escape with a feller o' her own
nationality, a newcomer. Anyhow, when I asked my father about her, he
threatened me into silence. He was a priest o' the order o'
Melchizedek, a powerful man among the prophets. From that hour I hated
Mormonism, an' determined t' escape whenever my chance occurred. It
came sooner 'an I expected.
"The Californian gold-rush had robbed the Saints o' the seaboard to
which they was hopin' to lay claim. They began to get nervous lest the
southern territories, from Salt Lake to the Mexican frontier, might
also be lost to 'em if they didn't do something so they organised the
State of Deseret, an' sent out expeditions to take it up before it
could fall into the Gentiles' hands. My father, I believe, had grown
'fraid o' me, lest I should take his life; so he had me included in
the first expedition, which consisted o' eighty men, an' was sent to
garrison a Mormon station in Carson Valley, Nevada.
"I've allaws had a nose for gold, an' we hadn't bin there a month
before I'd discovered an' washed out a little dust from a neighbourin'
gulch. I kept my secret to myself, an' when I'd gathered enough,
bought provisions, stole a horse, an' ran away, escapin' over the
Sierras into California, where I hoped that the Mormons, an'
especially my father, would lose all trace o' me an' give me up for
dead. For eight years I drifted along the coast from camp to camp,
but didn't have much luck. I even went so far south as Mexico, where I
laboured in the silver mines an' learned the Mexican method o'
crushin' quartz with arrastras.
"All this time I was haunted by the memory o' the gold which I'd
washed out in Carson Valley; the more I thought about it, the more
certain I was that untold riches lay buried there. However, I was
fearful to return, lest I should fall into the clutches o' the
priesthood o' Melchizedek or o' the spies o' Brigham Young. I was an
apostate, an' my father was my enemy; I knew that, should I once be
recovered by the Mormons, no mercy would be shown me. At last the news
came that the struggle o' the Saints for possession o' Nevada had been
given up, an' that messengers had bin sent out from Salt Lake biddin'
all emigrants return. For eight years I'd bin unmolested; I thought
that I'd bin forgotten, an' that it was safe to turn my steps
eastward.
"I travelled day an' night to get back to my first discovery; I was
tortured wi' the thought that before I got there someone might have
rediscovered it, an' have staked it out. I'd crossed the Sierras, an'
was within a two-days' journey o' my destination, when I came to a
lonely valley as the sun was settin', an' there I camped. The place
looked God-forsaken; there was nothin' in sight but rocks, an' sand,
an' sage-brush. I lit my fire, an' tethered my horse, an', being
dog-tired, was soon asleep. Suddenly I woke up, an' was conscious o'
footsteps goin' stealthily, away from me into the darkness. I jumped
to my feet an' seized my gun; but my eyes were dazed with sleep an'
firelight so that I could see nothin'. I ran out into the shadows,
followin' the footsteps, but, before I could come up with 'em, their
sound had changed to that o' a horse, gallopin' northward, growin'
fainter and fainter.
"I returned to my camp an' examined my baggage; nothin' was missin',
not even the gold which I'd carried--all seemed safe. I sat up an'
watched till daybreak, an', havin' snatched a hasty breakfast,
commenced t' pack my animal. Then it was that I discovered, slipped
beneath a strap o' my saddle, a sheet o' paper. Unfoldin' it, I saw
that it was scrawled over in a rude an' almost unreadable hand. This
was what it said, 'This demand of ours shall remain uncancelled, an'
shall be to you as was the Ark o' God among the Philistines. Unless
you return to your father's house an' to the people o' your father's
faith, you shall be visited by the Lord o' Hosts wi' thunder an' wi'
earthquakes, wi' floods, wi' pestilence, wi' famine, an' wi'
bloodshed, until the day of your death, when your name shall not be
known among men.'
"I was seized with panic, for then I knew that the spies o' Mormon had
traced me. But I wouldn't turn back, for I knew that the treasure for
which I had waited, as Jacob waited for Rachel, lay straight ahead. So
I rode forward, tremblin' as I went, carryin' my gun in my hand. At
the end o' the second day I came t' Johntown, an' found that many
things had changed since I had left. There were a dozen shanties in
the town; these were occupied wi' gamblers, storekeepers, an'
liquor-sellers, includin' two white women an' Sarah Winnemucca, the
Piute princess. But the placer-miners had been at work, an' the
gulches were dotted with the tents an' dugouts o' men who had
discovered my secret for themselves. Thomas Paige Comstock was in the
gang, the man who gave his name to the first great strike. They
called 'im Old Pancake, 'cause he was too busy searchin' for gold to
bake bread. Even at that time, as wi' spoon in hand he stirred the
pancake batter, he kept his eyes on the crest o' some distant peak,
an' was lost in dreams o' avarice.
"I hadn't bin there long before I took up wi' a feller named Peter
O'Riley, an' we became pards. We determined to try our luck in the
Walker River Mountains, where some new placers had bin started; but we
hadn't got the money, so we agreed t' work a claim in Six-Mile Canon
till we'd taken out enough dust t' pay for an outfit. We dug a trench
straight up the hillside, by Old Man Caldwell's Spring, through blue
clay an' a yellowish kind o' gravel. But the spring wasted down the
slope, so we stopped work on the trench an' commenced to sink a pit to
collect the water an' make a reservoir. We hadn't sunk more 'an four
feet when we struck a darker an' heavier soil, which sparkled as we
shovelled it above ground. We washed out a panful, an' found that the
bottom was fairly covered in gold. This was the top o' the famous
Ophir, had we only known it. We jumped to our feet an' shouted, for it
was the richest placer that had as yet bin found. We gave up our
notion o' the Walker River, an' I began to laugh int' myself at the
Mormon threat, that I should suffer from all the plagues o' Egypt, an'
die an unknown man. We were rich--rich--rich.
"Just as we were finishin' our day's work, Old Pancake rides up. He'd
bin lookin' for a mustang that he'd lost, an' came gallopin' over the
ridge, with his long legs brushin' the sage tops. We tried to hide our
discovery, but his eyes were too sharp for that. He saw the gold from
our last clean-up glistenin' in the bottom o' the pan, as the sunset
lit on it. 'You've struck it, boys,' he cried.
"Jumpin' from his horse, he went down into the pit t' examine for
hisself. He stayed down there some time; when he come up his face was
grave. He'd done a lot of thinkin' in a very short while. He sat down
on the hillside, an' was silent for so long that we began to suspect
there was somethin' up.
"At last he said, 'Now, see here, boys, this spring was old man
Caldwell's. I an' Manny Penrod bought his claim last winter, an' we
sold a tenth to Old Virginia th' other day. If you two fellers'll let
Manny an' myself in on equal shares, it's all right; if not, it's all
wrong.'
"We were a bit afraid o' Old Pancake; he'd bin longer in the district
'an we had. We didn't think to doubt his word, though, as we
afterwards discovered, every word that he spoke was false. Anyhow,
after a lot 'o argiment, we agreed to let him an' Manny Penrod in on
the terms which he'd suggested. That was the beginnin' o' the Johntown
gold-rush, an' I, for the second time, was one o' the discoverers. At
first we named the place Pleasant Hill Camp, an' I can tell you it was
mighty pleasant to be takin' out a thousand dollars a day per man. But
later, when a city commenced t' spring up, it was necessary t' find
some other name. We quarrelled a good deal about what we'd call it;
but one night, when Old Virginia was goin' home with the boys drunk,
carryin' a bottle o' whisky in 'is hand, he stumbled as he reached his
cabin, an' the bottle fell an' was broke. Risin' to his knees, with
the neck o' the bottle held fast in 'is hand, he coughed out, 'I
baptise this ground Virginia town.' An' so Virginia town, which was
afterwards changed t' city, the handful o' shanties was named.
"For all that my prospects were lookin' so rosy, I was really havin'
bad luck. Day after day, I was throwin' away wagon-loads o' 'blue
stuff,' as all th' other miners were doin', an' as those who had gone
before us had done--we damned it, an' didn't know its value. A month
after I'd sold out, a feller had some o' it assayed, an' it was found
to be worth nearly seven thousand dollars in gold an' silver per ton.
"I guess that curse o' the Mormons was more powerful 'an it seemed at
first sight--it's followed me through life an' ruined all the men with
whom I've come in touch. Old Virginia was thrown from his horse, an'
killed while drunk. O'Riley sold out his share for forty thousand
dollars, the bulk o' which he spent in wildcat speculations, so that,
what wi' disappointment an' loss, he finished out his days in a
madhouse. Penrod sold for eight thousand, an' soon spent everything he
had. Old Pancake sold for eleven thousand, an' lost every dollar.
Then, gettin' sick o' seein' other fellers grow rich out o' what had
bin his, he wandered off prospecting an' blew out his brains wi' his
own gun in the mountains o' Montana. A chap named Hansard, one o' our
first millionaires, died a pauper an' was buried at the public
expense. As for myself, you can see what I've become--the Man wi' the
Dead Soul."
He paused, and looked round at Granger. "_The Man wi' the Dead Soul_,"
he repeated, "that's what I am. When I die, my name will not be known
among men."
"I don't suppose there's any of us'll be remembered long," said
Granger. "There's a man out there on the bend; I was at Oxford with
him. He was one of the finest oars that England ever had. The papers
were full of him once. A sporting edition never came out but . . ."
He was interrupted. "Pass the whisky," Beorn said; "if we're goin' to
be forgot, it don't much matter what we do or have done; an' we may as
well forget."
He swallowed the spirit greedily at one quick gulp. "Where'd I got to?
Oh, yes, I'd sold out my claim for money down, an' made a fool o'
myself. You see I thought that my find was a gash-vein an' would soon
peter out, an' that I was doin' somethin' mighty clever to sell at
all. Instead o' which, I'd only skimmed the surface an' hadn't gone
deep enough. The men who bought from us sank down till they came to
the main lode, an' then there was the discovery o' what that 'blue
stuff,' which we'd bin throwin' away, was really worth; from them two
causes came the Washoe gold-rush. You never saw anythin' like that,
not even in the Klondike. It was maddenin' for me to stand by an'
watch these men, who'd come from a thousand miles east an' west, just
t' handle the pickin's o' the wealth which I had once possessed an'
hadn't had the sense to know about. They lived in tents, an' huts, an'
holes in the hillsides, an' paid seventy-five cents for a pound o'
flour, in the hopes that, when the summer 'ad come, they might get a
chance to prospect.
"Before winter 'ad gone, they was leadin' strings o' mules across the
mountains, on blankets spread above the snow, that they might get
provisions in an' prevent us from starvin'. An' I, the feller as
they'd come to rob, had to sit still an' watch it all.
"Before the roads were fit for travel, all the world was journeyin'
towards us. There were Irishmen, pushin' wheelbarrows; an' Mexicans
with burros; an' German miners, an' French, an' English, an' Swedes,
ploddin' through the mud across the Sierras with their tools upon
their backs; there were organ-grinders an' Jew pedlars, an' women
dressed as men, all comin' to Virginia City to claim the gold which I
'ad lost. I sat every day idly watchin' their approach, an' I hated
them. I'd begun to believe in the Mormon's curse, an' to let things
slide. There didn't seem to be much sense in stakin' out a new
claim--if I made another fortune, I felt certain that I'd surely lose
it all.
"Along wi' the adventurers an' prospectors came desperadoes, who
intended to make their fortune at the gun's point, by shootin'
straight! There was the Tombstone Terror, an' the Bad Man from Bodie,
an' Sam Brown, the greatest bully o' them all. One night a half-witted
feller asked him how many men he'd chopped. 'Ninety-nine,' says Sam,
'an' you're the hundredth.' He seizes him by the neck an' rips him to
pieces wi' his bowie-knife. Then he lay down an' went to sleep on the
billiard table, while the father gathered up what remained o' his son
from the floor.
"An' there was El Dorado Johnny, who, whenever he was goin' to shoot a
man, bought a new suit o' clothes an' had a shave, an' got his hair
cut an' his boots polished so that, in case there was any mistake, he
might make a handsome corpse. These were some o' the men that I lived
among, an', like God, I said nothin' to any of 'em, but watched an'
was interested in 'em all.
"I suppose I enjoyed myself, for I couldn't help laughin' quietly at
their expense. 'What went ye out for to seek?' I would ask as, sittin'
by the outskirts o' the town, I saw this army o' men an' women
struggle in from the mountain trail. An' then I'd answer myself, 'We
have come that we may dig out gold, that others may take it from us.
We have come to exchange our health an' hope for disease an'
disappointment. We have come to gain all the world, which we shall not
gain--an' to lose our own souls.'
"I tell you, it's mighty strange to think o' where all the gold, which
those brave chaps o' the Old Virginia days dug out, has gone. Some o'
it's been made into a necklace t' hang about a lady's throat; and some
o' it's gone to Rome t' gild a cross; and some o' it's been made into
a weddin' ring that a young girl might get married. I don't suppose
the folk in the old lands ever think of how far the gold which they
wear has travelled, nor how many have died in its gettin'. Some, which
'as bin made into a watch and goes to the city every day, may have
come from King Solomon's mines in ships o' Tarshish; an' the king may
have worn it hisself in his temple, or have given it away to the
dark-skinned girl that he wrote that song about.
"When I thought o' these things in Old Virginia, it made me sort o'
happy, so that I didn't mind what the Mormons 'ad said. Time seemed so
endless, an' life so short, that I didn't seem called on to worry
myself--only t' watch. If I found a new claim which panned out rich, I
didn't work it myself; for I knew that, though I seemed lucky, I
should end unlucky. An' I didn't tell anyone else about it; an' if
they found it out for theirselves, I was angry. I'd found the Ophir,
an' hadn't made anythin' out o' it--that was a big enough present for
one man to make to his world.
"So I just looked on, an' saw the fools rushin' in who expected to
pile up fortunes. And I saw the camels comin' in an' out, carryin'
salt to Virginia from the desert. They'd bin brought from Asia, an' I
could see that they felt as I felt, an' despised the greed an' hurry
o' what was goin' on. Later some of 'em got so disgusted that they
escaped from their drivers--at that time they was bein' used in
Arizona t' carry ore. I've often smiled when I've fancied the terror
o' some lone prospector, should one o' them long-legged brutes poke up
his nose above a ridge where gold had just been found, and sniff
scornfully down on the feller. Some o' them camels may be still livin'
an' doin' it at this very minute."
Beorn opened his jaws wide and laughed. Granger had never heard him
laugh before, and the sound was not pleasant. There was nothing of
mirth about the man or in anything that he said--there was only
disappointment and scorn. His bitterness became horrible when he
pretended to be merry. "He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh;
the Lord shall have them in derision." It was like the thunderous
scoffing of the Lord God of the Hebrews.
The candle had gone out, and the eerie light of the northland dawn,
drifting into the room through the little space of window that was
uncovered, made him and his companion look old and comfortless. But he
was anxious to hear the last of the story before the soul departed, so
he said, "And how was it that you left the Comstock Mines and came
into Keewatin?"
"I told you that I'd done what you intended, that I killed a man. I
did more 'an that, I killed many. You see, at that time there was no
proper minin' law in America; so when men got t'quarrellin', they
soon took t' fightin'. So long as the Comstock was only
placer-minin', we knew what we were about, an' there was no
trespassin', but when we took t' tunnelling', it wasn't long before we
was borin' under one another's ledges. The Comstock veins, startin'
near the surface, dipped toward the west, an' therefore the first
great conflict came with the nearest line o' claims t' the westward.
The ledges here were very rich an' almost perpendicular, an' so the
slopin' shafts o' the Ophir, Mexican, etc., soon ran int' the vertical
shafts on the 'middle lead.'
"The earliest case t' be tried, which I remember, was that o' the
Ophir against McCall. The court met in a stable, an' each side come
armed. One witness was shot at several times as he was ridin'
homeward, down a ravine at nightfall. Party spirit ran too high, an'
the danger o' bringin' in a unanimous verdict was too great for any
jury t' risk their lives by comin' to an agreement. There was no
justice; so there was nothin' left but to fight it out, the same as
when nations go to war. An' what were they goin' to fight about? A
metal which was only val'able because o' its rarity--which had no
value in itself, an' couldn't help men t' godliness; one which you
couldn't make an engine out o', nor a plough, nor even a sword,
because it was too soft. But in order to possess it, they was goin' to
take each other's lives. I, an' every other man in that town, had
thrown away or were throwin' away our souls for a thing which was
truly worthless.
"One night as I slept, I heard a voice callin' to me an' sayin', 'I
will make a man more precious than gold; even a man than the golden
wedge o' Ophir. Therefore I will shake the heavens, an' the earth
shall remove out o' her place, in th' wrath o' the Lord o' Hosts, an'
in the day o' his fierce anger.' I heard that voice callin' to me not
once, but several times; an' when I woke up, an' walked through the
town, an' saw the men o' the Ophir preparin' to shoot down the men o'
the McCall, I could still hear the voice repeating, 'Even a man than
the golden wedge o' Ophir.'
"I went back to my shanty, an' found my Bible, an' read it many days,
never stirrin' out. I remember there was one passage that seemed to
accuse myself, an' to explain my own failure--'If I have made gold my
hope, or have said to the fine gold, "Thou art my confidence"; if I
rejoiced because my wealth was great, an' because mine hand had gotten
much; if I beheld the sun when it shined, or the moon walkin' in
brightness, an' my heart hath been secretly enticed, or my mouth hath
kissed my hand: this also were an iniquity to be punished by the
judge, for I should have denied the God that is above.'
"I'd done all that. When I'd looked at the sun, I'd seen gold; when
I'd looked at the moon, I'd thought of silver; an' when I'd found both
the silver an' the gold in the Ophir, by Old Man Caldwell's Spring, my
mouth had kissed my own hand--an' not God's. An' what I'd done, every
one else was doin' in Virginia City; an' the Lord o' Hosts was angry,
an' that was why men were killin' one another. So, when I'd sat still
an' figured it all out, I said, 'God spoke to me because I'm the one
man on the Comstock who, when he's found gold, tries to bury it; an'
He spoke to me because He wants me to join with Him, an' help Him to
shake the heavens.' So out I walked, day after day, an' watched things
growin' from bad to worse; an' when I'd seen all I wanted, I come
home an' read my Bible--I knew that when God had need o' me He would
send His messenger.
"One night a miner come to my cabin, an' he said, 'Are you ready to
fight for the Fair-Haired Annie?'
"'I'm ready,' I said, 'but what's it all about?'
"'From a drift, a hundred feet down,' said he, 'that we're workin' on
at present, we can hear the picks o' the Bloody Thunder drawin' nearer
an' nearer; they'll break through to-morrer into one o' our ledges.'
"'What then?' I asked.
"'We're goin' to have a band o' men waitin' for 'em in the dark on our
side o' the ledge, an' everyone o' those men is goin' to be armed. The
moment that the picks o' the Bloody Thunder drive through an' the wall
goes down, the men o' the Fair-Haired Annie are goin' to fire.'
"'All right,' I said. 'I'm wi' you. I'll be there.'
"So next day I, an' twenty other men, were lowered down the shaft; an'
before we saw daylight again, the Fair-Haired Annie an' the Bloody
Thunder had gone to war. That was the first o' the underground fights
which took place on the Comstock. I picked my men, and paid 'em ten
dollars a day, an' called my gang 'The Avengers o' the Lord.' No one
'cept myself knew what that meant, but they learnt t' fear us, for we
fought to the death. Often when I was waitin' in the dark, listenin'
to the sound o' the rival miners comin' nearer, I would repeat to
myself the words, 'I will make a man more precious 'an gold; even a
man than the golden wedge o' Ophir.' An' when a poor chap lay dyin', I
would say to him those words."
"So you were sorry for the men you killed?"
"Oh, I was sorry, though that did small good to 'em. When the Lord's
bent on destroyin', He don't take much account o' persons. When the
first born o' Egypt were slain, He killed the evil wi' the
good--served 'em all alike. But it's heart-breakin' work to be made an
avenger o' the Lord."
"But I don't understand. What was there to avenge?"
"What was there to avenge? Why, the sinfulness o' those men, who was
diggin' out the power an' temptation to sin from the place where God
had hidden it. He meant that it should stay there forever; but now
it'll be handed down from generation to generation, as is King
Solomon's gold, temptin' our sons' sons to lose their souls as ours
were lost."
"And when all the fighting was done, did the soldiers get after you?"
asked Granger. But Beorn's eyes were closing, and the soul was
departing as day returned. Already the sun was leaping above the
horizon, and the sigh of the waking forest was heard. Granger seized
him by the arm and shook him--he had learnt only the least part of
that which he desired to know. "Was it for that crime that you fled,
till you came at last to Keewatin for safety?" he shouted. "Quick,
Beorn, tell me. Why did you go to the Forbidden River?"
The eyes did not open; but, as if the soul were answering him with a
last warning as it passed out of the door of the body, the lips
stirred, "Ay, man, it's terrible--the things men give for gold."
The face had become so ashy pale that Granger bent above it, painfully
listening for the intake of the breath, to assure himself that Beorn
was not dead. His clamour had aroused Eyelids; looking down towards
him, he saw that his eyes were wide and motionless, gazing towards
the window with an expression of drunken terror.
"What's the matter?" he asked sharply.
The half-breed did not reply, but crouched and pointed with his hand.
Granger, turning his head and following the direction indicated,
looked towards the triangle of uncovered window-pane, and there saw
the face of a man, gazing hungrily in upon him--yet, not upon him, but
upon the nugget which lay sparkling by Beorn's side upon the shelf. It
was a face that seemed dimly familiar, but thinner and more haggard.
At first it seemed to be his own face--the face of that _self_ from
which he had fled. Then he recognized, and knew that Spurling had
returned.