When Staritsa rounded a long bend in the river into a stretch of almost
still water, he saw what seemed to be a native fisherman, drifting
slowly down about a hundred feet from shore. The Russian was not greatly
surprised, and not in the least alarmed. A few native trappers plied
their lines through this Stikine country, selling their furs to far
Hudson’s Bay posts, but except when poisoned by lye concoctions sold by
outlaw traders, they were not in the least hostile. He glanced toward
his rifle—just to know where it was in case he needed it—and drifted
down toward him. The native was facing downstream, and apparently did
not hear the soft sound of the paddles.
It now became apparent that Staritsa’s complacency was entirely
justified. Instead of proving a menace, the native was plainly terrified
by the white men who had paddled up behind him. Evidently he did not see
them until they were within a few yards of him; and his subsequent
conduct could hardly be misinterpreted. He started, then seized his
paddle as if in a desperate effort to escape.
The white men behind him were able to follow his mental processes with
entire ease. Plainly he realized that flight was impossible—that at
this close range he would be promptly shot down with the white man’s
revolver—so he threw himself on their mercy. They saw him raise both
arms in token of surrender.
“What’s the matter with the fool?” Templeton called to his friend in the
foremost canoe. He directed the native in the stern to let his craft
drift. “Hasn’t he ever seen a white man before?”
But now Staritsa was not heeding Templeton. He was listening keenly to
the broken sentences uttered by the obviously terrified savage whose
canoe now floated, within twenty feet of his own. As he was speaking in
the bad Russian commonly used by natives in Russian-America, Templeton
could not, of course, understand.
The native was begging Staritsa not to shoot, and was promising to yield
without a fight and permit them to take him back to Sitka. They had
pursued him far, but he had given up at last; and if they would be
merciful he would violate no more of the Company’s commands.
Staritsa opened his eyes, then turned to Templeton, whose curiosity had
been quickened by the unintelligible talk. “He thinks we’re after him,”
the Russian explained in English. He studied the bronze face.
“Templeton, I have seen this man before. I believe he’s a runaway from
Sitka. By Heaven, I know him! His name is—Big Eagle, I fancy—something
of the kind—and he’s the fellow who tried to send a protest through to
the Crown. I have a notion to arrest him and take him back with us.”
But now he had occasion to listen even more carefully to the native’s
broken Russian. It appeared that the latter was offering some kind of a
bribe for immunity, and bribes were particularly in Staritsa’s line. And
now an unexpected gleam between his eyelids and a curious look of strain
about his lips and in his deep facial lines told Templeton that this
conversation was decidedly worth hearing. If Jeff had been present
instead of somewhere out of sight on the shore, he would have had cause
to remember Staritsa’s eyes when he had looked at a thousand sea otter,
piled in savage magnificence in the ship’s hold. For a moment he
hesitated as if reluctant to make explanations to his friend, but
presently recognized the need of his co-operation.
“Can either of our two men understand English?” he asked, turning to
Templeton.
“You know they can’t. At least, not more than an occasional word.”
“We’ve run into a marvelous piece of luck, I think. This man is
frightened near to death—I told you he supposes we came up here in
pursuit of him—and he says if we will let him go he will enrich us
both. He tells me that in these weeks he has been a—fugitive, you call
it?—he has been living a few hundred feet back in the brush and has
found gold—tons of gold the way he describes it. It is apparently the
free gold, and although he has small idea of the value of such a find as
this he describes, to me it is an argument for the truth of his story.
Certainly he believes it himself.”
Indeed, it was impossible to doubt him. His words, his manner, and his
expression all declared his sincerity. In the face of such proof one did
not recollect that guile is not an unknown Indian trait, and treachery
had made him famous aforetime.
“You think it’s worth investigation?”
“I am forced to think so. He wants us to come and see for ourselves. He
says a third will go to each of us if we let him go free—and you know,
my friend, what that means.”
“A third means half, in this case.”
“If I am not a fool or a child! I think it will be wise to look into
this matter, Templeton.”
Big Eagle was speaking again now, and the Russian took pains to listen.
Big Eagle would show him a sample, perhaps, to prove that his story was
true—such yellow dust as might have clung to his clothes. With
Staritsa’s permission his hand groped inside his buckskin shirt, and
drifting near with his canoe, he put a minute object in the former’s
outstretched hand.
“What is it?” Templeton asked.
The Russian peered intently at a small-piece of yellow metal, about the
size of a match head, cupped in his palm. His hand shook as he gave it
into his friend’s keeping. “What do you say it is?”
“A nugget, of course. A small one—but surely a nugget of pure gold.”
“No chance for a mistake?”
“None. A man may see many things that he thinks might be gold. When he
sees gold, he knows it. Where in the world could he have picked it up,
man? This will be the biggest thing that ever happened to us. You don’t
doubt that it’s gold, Staritsa?”
“I know it to be gold, and there must be more in the same pot. It will
mean a fearful rush up here, little one, when the truth comes out. Tell
your man to shove in to shore. We can take time to investigate this
thing.”
The mine was only a few hundred paces in, Big Eagle told them, so no
attempt was made to pitch camp. The canoes were left at the river’s
edge. The native was prepared to suggest that the two canoe men be left
behind to mind the cargoes—on the plea that he disliked to take them
into his confidence as to the location of the mine—but it transpired
that no such suggestion was needed. Until the gold deposits were
definitely in their hands, the two white men had no intention of sharing
with any one the knowledge of this incredible windfall.
“We might be able to get you a pardon—if the mine proves rich enough,”
Staritsa told him, as they walked in single file on a bear trail which
led through the woods. “You find out, Big Eagle, that you could not
possibly get away. We have followed you a long time, and we overtake you
at last.”
Templeton knew those quickening suspicions that curse men in the
presence of gold and demanded a translation of Staritsa’s remark. “I was
merely assuring him that he has been our quarry for a long time—to
prevent any possible perception of the real truth,” Staritsa explained.
“We wish him not to become suspicious.”
It was mutual. Big Eagle, fired with his master’s purpose, hoped that
the two men behind him would also refrain from any untoward suspicions.
There was no need to fear. They could hardly walk fast enough along the
trail. They were not given time to notice suspicious circumstances, much
less to dwell upon them. Jeff’s strategy centered about the idea of one
swift, telling blow, and the distance to the native’s “mine” had been
made purposely short. About two hundred yards from the river the trail
touched the bank of a small stream, and here, in a small rift in the
underbrush, stood a smoked cooking rack about which were strewn a few
pieces of camp equipment, some fuel, and other signs of a native
establishment. Muttering earnestly, Big Eagle picked up the iron kettle
that was evidently his only piece of cooking ware, and carrying it to
the creek, partly filled it with sand and gravel. This he washed, as if
the kettle were a gold pan.
He was very deliberate about it, exceedingly careful. Staritsa and
Templeton watched him with fascinated interest. Raw gold makes men mad
far more than moonlight ever did; and the strain was beginning to tell
on these two silent, breathless spectators. They wished he would hurry.
With an impassive face he rocked the kettle to and fro in his hands.
Soon almost all the gravel was washed out. He knelt down to examine his
washings. One on each side, the white men knelt also, craning their
aristocratic necks to see into the kettle.
It was at this instant that Staritsa had an acute feeling of discomfort.
It grew upon him, and he glanced uneasily across the stream. He found
the black eye of a rifle barrel looking squarely into his.
A tall figure stood on the opposite shore, with a rifle pressed against
his shoulder. He and his friend were snugly and comfortably covered.
“Put up your hands and don’t make a sound,” Jeff Sharp told them.