back the objectionable epithet; then an idea struck me. I wanted "Cap"
Campbell and Mackay, my adjoining burrowers in the frozen gravel, to
accompany me; they had shared with us the plodding uncertainty of things
at Skookum Gulch, and I wanted them to reap some of the benefits
attached to the discovery of the mysteriously-famed "Gold Bottom" before
the district was rushed. I could hardly doubt that King James's
information was correct, and the specimen given me was sufficient for
even the most incredulous-minded person. The inducement was very real
indeed, but the chief would only allow Mis'r Mac an' squaws.
"All right, King James," I said, "but I have two more squaws." He eyed
me with a look that was fast changing from one of mere friendliness to
one of much respect.
"You great man, Mis'r Mac," he grunted. "Four squaws? Ugh!"
When he saw the brawny giants that Mac hastily called in, his surprise
was unbounded. "Good squaws," he chuckled.
"What in tarnation does the old skunk mean?" said Mackay, and Campbell's
anger was rising visibly.
"Look here, boys," I said. "King James has told me of a creek that is
lined with gold, and this is a sample"--I showed them the specimen
received. "He asks me to go and take charge of the lot, but only myself
and squaws. You had better be squaws for once in your lives. _Savez?_"
They did "_savez_," and made every effort to show their cordiality to
the King, who appreciated their advances with tolerant grace, but
grinned expansively when he saw their well-filled cartridge-belts.
Stewart made a triumphant success of his cooking that day, and in honour
of the occasion he filled the little "doughboys" with pieces of dried
apricots and peaches, and, indeed, everything in that line our larder
afforded. So luxurious a repast did he provide that King James sighed
regretfully when he rose to go.
"You come to-morra', Mis'r Mac!" he cried when he was rolled up in his
sleigh blankets, like, as Mac said, an Egyptian mummy.
"Right!" I answered, waving him goodbye. But he had not finished.
"Be sure bring cook squaw," he murmured contentedly.
The long whips cracked and the dogs bounded forward; the shriek of the
sleigh-runners effectually drowned Stewart's vehement curses; and the
King departed.
Next morning we started out for the Indian camp. Mac and Stewart had the
tents struck, and it with the blankets packed in neat rolls on our
sleigh soon after sunrise. Our rather small store of flour and other
necessaries found ample space on the same conveyance, and to this load
Dave was harnessed. Campbell and Mackay did not delay us; they were up
betimes and had their dog-sleigh ready with ours. The temperature this
morning registered 30 degrees below zero, and even while we were engaged
tying the sleigh ropes, long icicles formed at our chins and dripped
from our eyelashes.
"Are you ready, boys?" I cried to my freshly-acquired squaws.
"Right!" they responded with one voice.
"Gee up, Dave," said Mac, and with a bound and a shriek our sleigh led
the way towards the Klondike's unknown source. We were not much
concerned about leaving our properties on Skookum Gulch; it was not
likely that any one would "jump" our claims; the weather was too cold
for the tender feet of Dawson to venture out around the creeks. Soon we
left the Dome in the distance behind, and swiftly we crashed through the
powdered snow and blown ice on the main river. No white man, at this
time, had explored the head waters of the Klondike. In the earlier
season I had attempted the task, but was repelled by the deep gorges and
grim cañons that marked the river's channel for many miles when near an
outlying spur of the "Rockies." Now we forced a trail far beyond my
furthest travel, tracing here and there the track of the old chief's
sleigh where the runners had cut deep through the blistered ice. Our
visages were soon framed in icicles, and our cheeks rendered stiff by a
thin film, as of glass, which caused us much pain. Mac and Stewart
ambled beside the staggering dogs, occasionally helping them over
obstacles and badly-blown patches. For once they were forced to march in
silence, for their mouths were sealed as if by iron bands.
The Grand Cañon was entered soon after midday, and the majestic powers
of old King Frost had so metamorphosed the dark gorge that we made our
trail over the frozen torrent almost nervously. The great stalactites
and dripping ice cones shut out the sky completely, and we forged ahead
in a vague eerie shadow reflected from the translucent pillars. Here and
there the roar of the flood echoed from giant clefts in the ice, and
caused the glassy walls to quiver and crackle; then again came the
oppressive calm, broken only by the dull rumble of the rushing torrent
full fifty feet below.
It is impossible to picture the grandeur of an Alaskan cañon when the
elements hold it in thrall; there is nothing like it in the whole world.
Nevertheless, we were not sorry when we emerged into the comparatively
open country beyond, and picked up afresh the track of King James's
sleigh which we had been unable to trace in the gorge. Our destination
could not now be far distant, for the frowning peaks of the Rockies
loomed directly ahead, and the valley was rapidly becoming lost in the
minor ranges that appeared; we were surely near the mystic source of the
golden Klondike. The dogs never slackened their trot, though now and
then they staggered and stumbled over large ridges of blistered ice,
which cut their paws cruelly. Our moccasins were being quickly reduced
to shreds, and our clothing generally had become stiff with the frost
and rent in great holes by contact with the brittle, flaking ice. Few
white men would have dreamed of making such a journey on such a day. I
contented myself with that reflection, though probably the miners in
their snug huts at Dawson would have dubbed us colossal fools for
venturing so far back into the Indian territory; but gold was always an
irresistible incentive.
"I reckon," said Campbell, coming up from behind, and grimacing
frightfully as he spoke, while the ice shivered on his face with the
effort, "this is not much of a picnic, is it?"
It was some minutes before I could reply, and while I strove to coax the
muscles of my mouth to relax without doing serious injury to my
features, Stewart's hoary visage shook itself clear of its icy sheath
with a crackling, splintering sound, and his voice rang out--
"I see the Injun camp! Hurroo! D----!" The last expression was given in
a most sorrowful tone as he felt the blood trickle on his cheeks and
freeze into icy appendages.
"You've got to think a lot before speaking in this country," I
sympathised, but he would not open his mouth again.
Rounding a bluff, we saw, nestling in the shadow of a great pine-forest,
an array of mud huts and tepees covered with caribou skins. Many fires
were blazing in the vicinity, fed lavishly with logs drawn from the
wooded slope behind. A number of King James's subjects superintended
operations with unmoved faces; it was a routine to which they had long
become accustomed--for bear-fires were very necessary indeed in these
parts; Bruin had not yet reconciled himself to his winter slumber, and,
as I have noted, the Klondike valley was infested with various species
of his kind.
With a sigh of thankfulness I signalled to Mac to draw up alongside the
largest fire, and he needed no second bidding. A few moments more and we
were all eagerly thawing ourselves before the blaze. Even the dogs
crept as close as the burning logs allowed, and warmed their poor frozen
bodies on all sides, turning continually, as if on a revolving
toast-rack. From the most imposing hut now came rushing towards us King
James, with numerous squaws; and while the King congratulated me
effusively on my safe arrival, the squaws beamed coquettishly on my
companions, who felt in no wise complimented by their attentions.
"They tak' us fur squaws, Stewart!" howled Mac, more in sorrow than in
anger; then I heard them both with much deliberation calculate out the
value of the Queen squaw's dress as she stood by them, speaking words of
welcome in a tongue they could not understand.
"It's a rale guid beaver," I heard Mac say.
"An' what a bonny silver-tip cloak," burst in Stewart.
"An' the moccasins," continued the first speaker, "are faur ow'r guid
fur an Injun tae wear."
At this juncture I turned anxiously; I thought it very necessary.
"For heaven's sake, Mac," I said, "leave the squaw's beavers and
moccasins alone. We'll get murdered if old King James----"
"Wha's touchin' their belangin's?" interrupted Mac indignantly; but
despite his righteous outburst, I knew that he and his doughty comrade
would have had little qualms about appropriating the bonny beavers and
moccasins also. Their logic was vague, but conclusive enough to satisfy
themselves. However, with much grumbling they unharnessed Dave, and
started to erect the tent in a sheltered spot, Campbell and Mackay
having already got their smaller canvas home fixed up.
"It's fair disgracefu'," muttered Mac, as he pulled on the guy-rope,
"tae think o' livin' near Injuns! We're comin' faur doon in the world
surely."
"Ye're richt there," spoke Stewart mournfully; "bit, man, did ye ever
see sic a bonnie beaver?"
Next morning, when the dim grey light was beginning to appear, we set
out to explore the creek containing "too much gold." King James's sleigh
led the trail, for which I was truly thankful. The dangerous nature of
the route from the Indian camp was all too apparent. Miniature glaciers
hung perilously over each mountain ridge, and formed a sight well fitted
to unnerve any man but an Indian; and when we crawled over their glassy
surfaces, and slid down on the "other" side, it seemed to me that we
were running risks enough for all the gold in Klondike. We had not gone
very far, however, before King James drew up his dogs in the bed of a
deep chasm that traced directly from an enormous ice-field overhead. I
looked around and saw the frozen channel of the Thron-Diuck about a
hundred yards below; the King had taken us by a "short cut" over the
mountains rather than follow the much easier route by way of the main
river. For a moment I thought that he had purposely meant us to lose our
bearings, but he soon dispelled that fear.
"Gold Bottom here, Mis'r Mac," he said. "You dig." He measured about a
four-feet length on the snow, meaning, I suppose, that we should find
bedrock at that level. "You find much gold, Mis'r Mac, too much
gold----"
"Hold hard!" I interrupted; "I guess we'll deserve all we get. This is
the devil's own part of the world we've struck."
King James grinned incredulously, but kept silence; and arranging his
sleigh rugs, he whipped up his long line of dogs and sped back over the
trail we had just traversed. We watched him till his sleigh, careering
dangerously, rushed down into the valley beyond. The mining instincts
of Campbell and Mackay now overcame their dislike of our chill and
uncompromising surroundings.
[Illustration: GOLD-BOTTOM CREEK.]
"It looks likely country," said Campbell, "and I shouldn't wonder if
that glacier has worn down quite a lot of gold."
We were not long in pitching our tents and building several fires to
thaw off the icicles that clung to our faces; then we felt much more
enthusiastic over our prospects. The timber was plentiful, and close at
hand; we were far indeed from the madding crowd.
"We'll make a start, boys," I said; "we'll see whether old Leather-skin
spoke correctly."
My two companions were rather disconsolately surveying the scene.
"Too much gold!" muttered Mac in derision. "No vera likely. It wad tak'
hundreds o' thoosands o' pounds tae pey me fur ma sufferin's in this
God-forsaken country."
All day long we kept great logs burning over the frozen gravel silted up
on the edge of the channel. Slowly we excavated the "dirt" in fragments,
picking energetically at it after each fire had been cleared away. The
icy body of the creek had evidently long since been formed, for not a
drop of water flowed beneath; and after sinking a few feet we came to a
level where the frozen mass contracted from the old river-bed, leaving a
clear dry space in which a man could almost stand upright. We at once
abandoned our shaft, and crawled into the strange cavern formed. The
gravel over which the torrent had flowed was dry, and hard as flint. We
had reached bedrock on the true channel of the stream, and with water
still flowing overhead! A yet unfrozen fluid gurgled in the heart of the
great ice column above; the effect was wonderfully beautiful.
"I guess we'll stick to the shaft, boys," said Mackay; "this looks
uncanny," and he scrambled out; the idea of working underneath the
flowing stream was too much for him, though he was a veteran miner.
Campbell and I soon followed his example, leaving Mac and Stewart, who
were not easily daunted, to survey the wonders of Nature at their
leisure. They at once commenced picking the frozen channel, and the
thud! thud! of the blows came to our ears, as we stood by the fire
above, as the sonorous notes of a deep-toned bell. Already the murky
gloom of an Alaskan night was fast closing over, though it was yet but
two o'clock in the afternoon. Thud! thud! thud! went the pickaxes below,
and I marvelled at the persistence of my companions, for I knew they
could make little impression on the flinty sands.
Suddenly the echoes ceased, and the sounds of a wordy altercation
rumbled up towards us; a few minutes later Mac popped his head out of
the shaft and beckoned me mysteriously, then disappeared again.
Wonderingly I let myself down through the narrow aperture and wriggled
into the cavern. A strange sight met my gaze. A lighted stump of candle
was stuck in the ground, and its pale light, reflected against the
glistening roof, gave the scene a somewhat unearthly appearance. Stewart
was kneeling on the gravel, examining carefully a flat, pebble-shaped
stone; beside him was heaped quite a number of similar fragments, and
these were evidently the results of my companions' labours, for many
hollows in the channel showed where the pebbles had been extracted. When
I entered, Mac was feverishly rubbing one of the pieces against his
moccasined leg.
"What kind o' stane dae ye ca' that?" he asked eagerly, handing his
prize to me.
"I've tell't him it's ironstane," broke in Stewart in a convinced tone
of voice, "but Mac aye likes tae be contrairy."
The specimen given me was a rough and rusty-looking pebble, very much
water-worn. At first glance it certainly looked like ironstone, and its
weight proved it to be either of that nature or--I dared not hoped the
alternative. I took my sheath knife and endeavoured to scrape the edges,
but they were hard as flint.
"A kent it was ironstane," grumbled Stewart, yet I was not satisfied. I
held the specimen close to the candle-flame for several minutes until it
was heated throughout, then I again tried my knife on the edges. The
effect was astounding; the rusty iron coat peeled off as mud, and lo! a
nugget of shining gold was brought to view.
With a howl of delight Stewart started up, cracking his head against the
crystal ceiling in his haste. "Gold!" he shouted, and grabbed at the
handful of stones he had collected. "Mak' some mair," he said.
But there was no need to doubt further; every rusty-coloured pebble
unearthed was in truth a fine alluvial specimen of the precious metal,
and when scraped each tallied in every characteristic with King James's
nugget. The iron coating was but a frozen mud cement which had formed
over the irregularities of surface with vice-like tenacity. The bed of
the creek was indeed gold bottomed; the King had not stated wrongly.
Campbell and Mackay soon joined us; they had become alarmed at my
prolonged absence.
"This beats Bonanza and El Dorado hollow," was the first individual's
comment.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" feebly murmured Mackay, gazing blinkingly around.
The light danced and shone on the yellow fragments, and sparkled on the
crystal dome. The sight was truly gorgeous. Even the fabled Aladdin's
cave could hardly have surpassed the splendours of that Alaskan icy
vault.
It was plain to us that the depth of "pay gravel" could not be more than
a few inches at most; the steep declivity of the channel was a sure
proof of that fact, and our "find" would not, therefore, take long to
work out. It promised, however, to be the richest strike in the Klondike
valley. The gold being so close to the mother lode, which was,
unfortunately, covered by the glacier, was all of a coarse nature; none
of the pieces collected came under the pennyweight limit, and one
specimen we computed to be at least five ounces....
Such is the record of one of our prospecting trips to the glacier
streams of the Upper Klondike, and "Gold Bottom Creek" from that time
occupied an honoured place in every miner's reference book.
THE PERILS OF THE TRAIL
All through that dread winter no news reached civilisation from the
frozen El Dorado, no communication had been established with the great
mushroom city of the far Nor'-West, and only the wildest sort of
speculation could be indulged in as to the fate of the pioneer
inhabitants of the Klondike valley. Only too late was the knowledge
forced upon the almost fanatical gold-seekers that the iron grip of an
Arctic winter was upon them, effectually barring retreat and sealing the
narrow gates of the country against all further expeditions from the
outside. They had lived on in the steadfast belief that the "Great
American nation" would send in supplies in good time to prevent any
likelihood of starvation. But so ignorant was the world regarding the
nature of the northern land that many companies continued even at that
time in Seattle and San Francisco to outline in the press their plans
for sending stores to Dawson in the "coming" winter--this in November,
when the elements had already a vice-like grip of the country.
Several expeditions really started, but so ludicrous were their
equipments that they without exception failed to penetrate beyond the
coastal barriers--the grim old Chilcoot and the murderous Skagway trail.
And so in the "promised land" the chill November blasts were hushed and
the deadly quiet of a December frost reigned supreme. The majority of
the miners worked out on the creeks, but when the intense cold forced
them to cease their labours they flocked into Dawson and idly frequented
the saloons, bragging of their riches to their less favoured comrades,
and cursing the ungodly nature of the country in forcible language.
At this time very few had more than three months' provisions, and the
majority were at their last bag of flour. The stores would sell nothing
unless at fabulous prices. Everything commanded one dollar a pound. Even
salt, that cheap but necessary commodity, had the same value. Baking
powder was unpurchasable--there being none. Before long one hundred
dollars was offered and refused for a sack of rolled oats. The
restaurants for a time supplied "meals" at exorbitant charges, yet one
by one they had to give out for want of supplies. The end came when
seven dollars was asked and given freely for a meagre portion of bacon
and beans--the staple food of the Arctics. Only a few days did this
establishment--"Dawson's Last Hope"--hold out, and then the familiar
legend, "No supplies," was posted on the logged doorway. It was only
then that the real state of affairs was impressed upon the unthinking
people.
Many tragedies were enacted in that northern mining camp during the
weeks that followed. A kind of panic prevailed. Short rations was the
rule, and starvation only too frequent. There seemed nothing but death
ahead for all. On short rations, with the thermometer averaging
forty-five below zero! who could view such a prospect with equanimity?
Thefts of goods were often attempted, and almost invariably death by
revolver bullet was the end of the poor hungry would-be thief's career,
for the necessaries of life were more strictly guarded than gold. Gold
could not buy them. Many would have given their all gladly for a sack of
flour. Long before Christmas all work was suspended. The population took
to their log-huts, and barricaded every nook and cranny in vain
endeavour to keep out the cold. Daylight appeared at ten o'clock in the
morning, and night closed over the camp soon after three. The "city"
seemed deserted, all but for the presence of a few dog-sleighs, which
were constantly employed in carrying timber from the mountain-side. The
strong men who had dared the elements and dragged the gold from the
unwilling soil now gave way utterly. The keen air whetting their
appetites rendered their existence on short rations a long-drawn-out
agony. The weaker element soon fell ill, and then a reign of terror
began. Fever became prevalent, and the little cemetery soon had to be
extended to accommodate the many victims to its fury.
A "roll-up" of the miners was by unanimous consent held to reason out
the dangerous situation, and it was decided as a last desperate resource
to attempt the long overland route to Dyea across the treacherous
Chilcoot Pass. Until the arrival of my party over the ice none had
dreamed that such a journey was practicable. During the heart of an
Arctic winter, to march seven hundred miles over ice and unfathomed
snows! The idea seemed absurd, yet it now became the only hope of life
to all. That "roll-up" is pictured clearly before me now, and never
again do I expect to be present at a more cruelly dramatic gathering.
Starvation showed plainly on every face; each white frosted visage was
seamed and furrowed as if by a load of care. They were indeed a motley
crowd, comprising representatives of all nationalities. To me fell the
questionable honour of leadership. I was supposed to know the valley of
the Yukon better than any present, nearly all of whom had entered by
way of St. Michael's.
"All right, boys," I said, in answer to their request, "my party will
make the trail for you as far as Big Salmon River. Then Major Walsh may
be able to advise us what to do."
And so the strange company began its long and deadly march. Half a dozen
dog teams headed the column, after which came men pulling their own
sleighs, and at the rear wearily trudged the multitude who carried their
all in packs bound with straps to their shoulders. It was a strange and
pitiable spectacle at the start; what would it be at the finish?
The Stewart River was reached in four days, and here the "blown" ice was
almost insurmountable. It piled up in great blistering sheets, the
elevations in some places exceeding a height of twenty feet. Over these
obstacles the dog-sleighs crashed, breaking a way for the long trailing
human caravan. Moccasins were cut into shreds, and clothing soon became
tattered and torn. The thermometer had now dropped to fifty degrees
below zero, and many became frost-bitten. Not a few lost the use of
their arms, and marble-hued noses were common indeed.
Sometimes I would get well ahead of the main party, and from a
convenient point watched them approach and pass. A stranger sight could
not be imagined. The staggering line of dogs came first; over their
lowered heads the long whips cracked, and the poor brutes bounded
forward with nerve and life in every motion. Then the weary
sleigh-pullers passed in solemn array, shoulders bent and bodies leaning
forward. Their sleighs were pulled along to the accompaniment of the
harsh grinding sound emitted from the iron runners on the frozen snow.
Lastly, the "packers" straggled in Indian file, and they were surely a
sight to be viewed with mingled feelings. Tall men, short men, stout
men--and they were few--and thin men followed in miscellaneous order.
Some were lame, and limped painfully; some had their heads bandaged,
many wore nose coverings, and a few were minus the nose altogether.
Strange it was to see at intervals, when this almost weird procession
lagged to the rear, how strenuously they would endeavour to recover
ground, and when with one accord they broke into a run the spectacle
offered would have been laughable had it not been so seriously, so truly
a race for life.
[Illustration: DAWSON CITY.]
Salmon River was reached at last. Five men had died on the trail and two
were seriously ill, though they dragged themselves along, helped
occasionally by the dog-sleighs. Here I formally gave over my
responsible charge to Campbell and Mackay, and having been entrusted
with mails and despatches for the coast, with barely a halt pushed on
ahead with Mac and Stewart. Our stores had diminished greatly beyond my
calculations, and it was evident that an extreme effort must be made to
increase our rate of travel. Yet despite our utmost endeavours, when we
entered upon the snowy wastes of Marsh Lake we pulled a sleigh on which
reposed a few furs, a bag of mineral specimens, and about as much flour
as would make one good square meal.
For the last several days our progress had been severely hampered by the
increasing depth and softness of the snow filling the valley of the
Yukon as we approached nearer the dreaded pass. Our daily march since
leaving the northern capital had rarely fallen below twenty-eight miles,
until the unfrozen White Horse Rapids had stayed our advance and caused
us to make a wide _détour_; but now, do what we might in our
semi-famished condition, we could barely travel twenty miles in as many
hours, and full eighty miles yet intervened between us and the sea. On
this day we had been on the trail since sunrise, and the darkening
shadows of night were already beginning to creep over the billowy
wastes, though it was but two hours after noon.
"We are near the end of the lake, boys," I shouted encouragingly, as I
noticed the failing efforts of my companions. "We must try and reach
Tagash River to-night."
Mac groaned dismally, and Dave emitted a plaintive howl as he struggled
in his harness. Then Stewart, who had grown wofully cadaverous of late,
stopped and addressed his compatriot.
"I mind, Mac," said he, "that there used to be an Injun village aboot
here."
"I hae a disteenct recollection o' the place," returned Mac shortly,
bending to his labours afresh.
"We are passing that same village now," I cried cheerily. "That makes
ten miles since our last halt."
The sleigh stopped with a jerk; half a dozen log-huts with a like amount
of totem poles, were plainly observable among the dense timber on shore.
"Them Injuns must have something for eating in they houses," spoke Mac
thoughtfully, gazing at the rude structures intently.
"But we have nothing to barter, and we know they won't sell," I broke in
impatiently.
He made no reply to my remark, but turned to Stewart, who was evidently
in a fit of deep mental abstraction: "What's your idea, Stewart, ma
man?" he asked insinuatingly, and that individual responded promptly.
"I am wi' ye, Mac, every time, but I hope it's no' a graveyard like the
last we tackled." They threw down their sleigh-ropes simultaneously, and
were half-way to the village before I had recovered myself.
"Hold hard!" I roared. "What----"
Mac's substantial figure spun round at once. "We'll be back in a
meenit," he whispered mysteriously.
I loosened Dave from his harness, and hastened after the doughty pair,
expecting every instant to hear sounds of deadly strife, but all
remained silent as a tomb, and I shuddered with painful recollections. I
found them cavorting around the largest edifice in the group in a manner
that under different circumstances would have seemed ludicrous.
"There's naebody in the hooses," cried Stewart gleefully. "The whole
tribe must have gone out moose-hunting."
Not infrequently a village is entirely deserted in this way, and I
heaved a sigh of relief. "But they may be back at any time," I said,
glancing fearfully round.
Mac shrugged his shoulders; "I think, Stewart," he remarked in a most
matter-of-fact tone, "I think the door is the weakest place after all."
I swallowed my scruples at a gulp, and became interested in the
proceedings at once. Strangely enough, for the moment we all seemed to
have forgotten how very similarly our first escapade of the kind had
opened.
Crash! Mac's broad shoulder butted the barricaded doorway right
ponderously, but though the heavy logs quivered and bent, they resisted
the shock. And now Stewart braced himself for the attack, and together
they hurled themselves against the wavering supports. There was a
resounding echo as the entire structure gave way, and with many chuckles
of delight the adventurous couple disappeared within, while I remained
outside, my rifle at full cock, listening for the tramp of moccasined
feet that would herald the Indians' return. I heard Mac strike match
after match, muttering discontentedly the while, and Stewart's
dissatisfied grunts filled me with dismay. Was our depredating raid to
go unrewarded?
"There's jist the sma'est bit o' caribou ye could imagine in the hale
hoose," snorted Mac indignantly. "It wis high time the deevils went
huntin', I'm thinkin'."
"Let's try the other hooses," counselled Stewart.
At that moment Dave gave a long, low growl, and immediately an
indescribable chorus of yells issued from the forest near at hand. Then,
to my horror, I perceived numerous dark forms speeding towards me.
Instinctively I levelled my rifle, then by an extreme effort of will
lowered it again. We were surely in the wrong. "Come on, boys," I cried,
"we must run for it."
"Haud on till I get that bit o' caribou," murmured Mac desperately.
A moment more, and we made a wild burst in the direction of the sleighs,
pursued by a number of stalwart warriors, whose vengeful shouts inspired
our failing steps with an unwonted activity.
"Let's stop and fecht the deevils," implored Mac, as we grabbed the
ropes of our sadly-light conveyance, and even at that juncture he
examined his stolen piece of caribou with critical interest. "It's no'
fit for human use," he protested angrily. "I'm no' goin' to run for
nothing."
But the yelling horde at our heels made him think better of it, and
muttering sundry maledictions he hitched on to the rushing sleigh, and
lumbered manfully alongside his gloomy compatriot. Fear did certainly
lend wings to our flight, and by the time we had reached the outlet
leading to Tagash Lake, our pursuers were far in the rear, the obscuring
darkness probably being much in our favour. And then, as we hastened
over the shelving ice on the connecting river, we beheld a sight that
drew from us ejaculations of sheer chagrin. A great fire blazed on the
shores of the frozen stream, illuminating in the background a
solidly-built logged erection, and showing clearly the outlines of a
giant Union Jack fastened to a tree close by. Not a soul was in sight,
but I could fancy the comfortable group inside the generous dwelling
whiling away the time before a glowing stove or indulging in a luxurious
dinner.
"It's a Government station," I said drearily. "It must have been put
here just before the ice closed in."
We halted for an instant, and gazed wistfully at the snug police camp.
Here surely we might obtain some little stores for our urgent needs, but
how dared we ask? The Indians were British subjects, and would indeed be
treated with more consideration than we might expect, for it is the
policy of the Canadian authorities to protect, even to the outside
extreme, the rights of their dusky subjects. Then, again, we had been
long on the trail, and our clothing was rent and ragged. The police
might judge us by appearances, and then--I did not care to think what
might happen. Many thoughts flitted through my mind as we stood there
hesitatingly, and my worthy companions, by their silence, showed that
they too were thinking deeply. The unmusical cries of our pursuers
jarred on our meditations with seemingly awakening vigour.
"They've got our trail," I said sadly. "We'd better get along."
"Civilisashun be d----d," fervently, if ambiguously, muttered Mac and
Stewart almost with one voice, and we staggered out into the bleak,
snowy plains of Tagash Lake, and pursued a dogged course southward.
THE TENT AT CARIBOU CROSSING
It was midnight before we halted, and then we camped on the middle of
the frozen lake, and near the entrance to the Big Windy Arm; and here,
after a most miserable night, we were forced to abandon the greater part
of the stolen venison as being in itself but little satisfying to our
urgent needs. We started again before daybreak, steering by compass in
the darkness. Indeed, it was absolutely necessary that we should keep
moving if we would prevent the blood from freezing in our veins. Our
plight was surely an unenviable one, and as we stumbled on through the
ever-deepening snow, Mac and Stewart cursed the country endlessly in
choice vernacular; and even Dave, struggling desperately in his harness,
found opportunity to give his verdict in hoarse, muffled growls of deep
displeasure.
"We'll bile the first Injun we meet," said Stewart solemnly, after
several hours had passed in silence, and he shook his head clear of its
encompassing deposits of frosted snow and ice, and gazed at our meagre
sleigh-load with pensive eyes.
"I'm no sae sure that Injun is guid for eatin' ony mair than mummy
caribou," rejoined Mac after much thought. "I mind," he continued
ruminatively, "o' eatin' snake sausages in Sooth America, an' they were
wonderfu' paleetable, but Injun?" He shook his ice-enclustered head
doubtfully. The day was already drawing to a close; the sun had risen at
ten o'clock, and its short arc in the heavens was almost completed. The
time at which one usually expects to fortify the inner man had passed in
grim silence, and the darkening shadows were creeping over the billowy
white waste.
"We must reach Caribou Crossing to-night, boys," I said. "We dare not
camp again on the open lake in case a blizzard gets up and wipes us
out."
The blackness of night enveloped us completely, and the tingling
sensation in our cheeks warned us that the frost intensity was far below
the zero scale. Our moccasins sunk through a powdery fleece so crisp,
that it crushed like tinder beneath us, and the steel sleigh-runners
whistled harshly over the sparkling beady surface. The stars twinkled
and shone brilliantly, and great streaks of dazzling light shot at
intervals across the northern sky; the night effects were indeed
splendid beyond description, yet we were too much engrossed with more
practical matters to wax enthusiastic over astronomical glories.
Suddenly the sharp hiss-s of a sleigh reached our ears, then out of the
darkness came the sound of laboured breathing and smothered growls, as
of dogs straining under an undue load. Obeying a common impulse our
sorely-tried caravan came to a halt, Dave whining piteously and pawing
the ground impatiently, while my companions peered into the night
earnestly, then turned and gazed at me in silence. The hurrying sleigh
was fast approaching on a course that would lead it but a few yards to
our left. I was on the point of stepping forward to intercept the
advancing dog-team which was now showing dimly in the starlight, when
one of the two men who accompanied it spoke, and his voice sounded
distinctly in the still air.
"I thought I heard something," said he.
"What could you hear?" answered his companion gruffly. "There can't be
any one nearer than the station at Tagash, and it's far enough off yet,
worse luck."
"All the same," reiterated the first speaker, "I'm sure I heard
sleigh-runners skidding over the snow. It's mebbe some poor devils
coming out from Dawson."
They were almost beside us now, and I wondered that we had not been
noticed.
"You'll remember, Corporal," came the tones of the doubtful one in hard,
official accents, "that on no account can I give out any supplies. I
have my own men to provide for."
For the same reason that we had hurried past the station at Tagash
River, I had no desire to bring my party to official notice now; so,
inwardly cursing the niggardly captain, I decided to let the team pass
without soliciting relief. It was clearly a Government "outfit" for the
benefit of the men at Tagash. At a jerky trot the four leading dogs
swept by us, swaying wildly as they pulled in their traces. Four more
dogs followed, then a heavily-laden sleigh came creaking and groaning
through the snow, the runners sunk deep and churning up clouds of vapour
which almost hid from view the plump sacks of flour on board. The men
came after at an amble, their faces muffled so that they, apparently,
could neither turn to the right nor left. I could scarcely restrain my
companions at this point from breaking into a vehement denunciation of
the police captain and his corporal. They would, indeed, have stormed
the sleigh cheerfully, and meted out no gentle treatment to the owners
thereof. With energetic pantomimic gestures I implored them to be calm;
the team was fast being swallowed up in the gloom, but before it had
disappeared from our penetrating gaze a broken sentence floated back to
our ears: "Pity ... had to leave so much ... Caribou Crossing ... back
to-morrow.... D----d Klondikers."
For five minutes more we waited in silence, during which time Mac and
Stewart were effervescing to an alarming climax, then we gave full vent
to our joy. "Ho! ho! ho!" laughed my companions. "Pity left so much at
Caribou! D----d Klondikers! Ho! ho! ho!" Dave, too, seemed to
understand the situation, and promptly proceeded to bark out his
appreciation; but his exuberance was too noisy, so it was hurriedly
checked.
"Get under way, boys," I said, when my henchmen had recovered their
equanimity, "for we'll need to look lively before the trail is blotted
out." We had not spoken a word about the matter, yet there existed a
perfect understanding between us. If anything edible had been left at
Caribou Crossing we were determined to commandeer it.
The well-weighted sleigh had made an easily-observable trail; in the dim
starlight the twin furrows formed by the runners glittered and shone
like the yeasty foam from a ship's propeller. We carefully directed the
prow of our snow-ship into these well-padded channels, and with renewed
energy forged ahead, thinking longingly of what might await us at
Caribou. Soon the shadows on either side of the lake drew nearer and
nearer, and the steep, wooded shores of the dreary waterway narrowed
inwards, so that the feathery fronds of the stately pine-trees were
plainly discernible; we were approaching the entrance to Caribou
Crossing. Five minutes later we had passed through the narrow
channel--it was barely twenty yards across--and were speeding silently
over the deep drifts of snow which were wreathed in giant masses on the
surface of the frozen lagoon. The hitherto heavily-marked trail now
appeared blurred and indistinct, and the dense forests lining the
"crossing" threw a shadow on the track which effectually neutralised
the vague glimmer of the stars, so that we had literally to feel for the
deep sleigh channels.
"If I'm spared to come oot o' this," groaned Mac, as he crawled gingerly
on all fours across the drifts, "I'll never speak o' ma sufferin's, for
naebody could believe what I hae endured."
"I hae traivelled faur," supplemented Stewart, lifting up his voice in
pathetic appeal, "but I've never been sae afflicted."
Having now introduced the subject of their woes they proceeded to
comfort one another in well-chosen words of sympathy. "You'll suffer a
considerable amount more if you don't find the trail soon," I broke in
by way of getting their attention more concentrated on the very urgent
matter on hand. But Stewart would have one word more:
"I'll mak' a fine moniment tae ye, Mac, ma man," he said with a sigh,
adding lugubriously, "puir, puir Mac."
"I'll hae yer life for that, ye deevil," roared that irate gentleman,
getting to his feet suddenly, and in consequence floundering to the
waist in the chilly wreaths.
Again I essayed to interfere. "Seems to me, boys," I said, "that you'd
better reserve your energy----" A loud bark interrupted my further
speech, and Mac immediately bellowed,
"Dave has got the trail; come on, Stewart, an' we'll hae a glorious
feast o' Government stores very soon."
I thought he was anticipating over-much, but I took care to say nothing
to discourage the pair, who now, side by side, were crawling rapidly
over the snow, tracing a new series of markings which led into the heart
of the thick foliage on shore. I followed after my comrades with
alacrity, but the drifts were very wide and deep, and I sunk to the neck
in their icy folds, and was almost frozen before I managed to extricate
myself.
"Are you following the trail, boys?" I cried, "or is it a bear track you
are tracing up?" They were too much engrossed in their sleuth-hound
operations to notice my inquiry, but as I had reached the shelter of the
timber where the snow was but thinly laid, I now groped my way more
quickly forward, and overtook the keen-eyed couple as they stopped short
and emitted a simultaneous howl of delight.
"Got it! Got it!" they yelled in unison, and Dave made the wooded slopes
resound with his deep-mouthed bark.
"Got what?" I interrogated, when opportunity offered, for nothing but
absolute blackness surrounded us.
"Licht a match," joyously spoke Mac.
Somewhat mystified I struck a sulphur match and held it aloft, and by
its sputtering flame I saw before me a 10 × 12 tent, on the roof of
which was painted in huge black letters, "N.W.M.P."
"We certainly have got it," I said with much satisfaction, "and we'll
see what's inside without delay."
"Scotland yet!" roared Stewart, in an ecstasy of delight, performing a
few steps of the Highland fling as delicately as his heavily-padded
moccasins would permit. Mac was more practical; he proceeded to execute
what appeared in the gloom to be a solemn ghost dance, but in reality he
was searching for the "door" end of the tent.
"Haud yer noise, ye gomeril!" he said shortly, addressing his
pirouetting companion, "an' when ye've feenished capering ye'll mebbe
get a candle off the sleigh."
The candle was quickly forthcoming, and the flap of the tent discovered;
it was laced tightly with long strips of caribou hide, and so was not
easily located in the darkness. We were not long in forcing an entry,
the board-like canvas was rooted up from the snow where it had frozen
fast, several hoary branches were pushed away from the inside wall,
then we boldly took possession. At first survey our "find" seemed
disappointing, the tent was almost empty; only a few very
dilapidated-looking sacks were piled within, and the dripping icicles
from the ridge gave a most frigid aspect to a dismal enough scene. Mac,
however, was not discouraged. "There maun be something for eatin' in
they bags," he said cheerfully, which was logic of the clearest nature;
then he proceeded to explore their contents, and while thus engaged
Stewart gathered together some branches and started a bright blaze at
the doorway.
"There's flour in this ane!" announced Mac joyfully, "an' beans in
anither!" he supplemented; then his delighted cries were frequent.
"We've got a wee thing o' maist everything that's guid," he summed up
finally, issuing out into the ruddy glow of the fire, where the billies,
filled with rapidly-melting snow, were fizzling away merrily.
The good news affected Stewart visibly. "A'll mak' a gorgeous re-past
the nicht, ye deevils," said he, "A'll mak' a rale sumshus feast."
The keen edge of our appetite was dulled as a preliminary by copious
draughts of coffee and the remnants of the morning's damper, then
operations were begun for the "gorgeous feast." Mac obligingly acted as
cook's assistant, and chopped off from the solidified contents of the
sacks the requisite amount of flour and other ingredients necessary--and
I fear many that were not altogether necessary in the strict sense of
the word, for beans, and flour, and rolled oats, and rice did not seem
to me to be a correct combination. But I was a novice in these arts and
feared to speak, and the manufacture of the "sumshus repast" went on
apace.
The night was far advanced, yet for once on the long dreary march from
Dawson we were in no hurry to court slumber, although we had travelled
over thirty miles that day. I think Stewart sized up my own thoughts
rather clearly when he said, during a lull in his artistic labours,
"What fur should we gang awa' early the morn'? It wad be a rael pity tae
leave this mag-nificent camp."
"We might wait just a little too long, Stewart," I replied, and visions
of an angry captain and his stalwart followers floated unpleasantly
before my eyes.
It was near midnight when the gurgling billy was lifted from its perch
amid the glowing logs, and Stewart gingerly fished from its interior a
round steaming mass, neatly enclosed in an old oatmeal sack and tied at
the top. With deft fingers its author undid the wrappings, and lo! a
rubicund pudding of cannon-ball-like aspect greeted our expectant
visions, and was hailed with loud acclamation.
"Ever see a puddin' like that, Mac?" demanded Stewart, gazing at it
tenderly, and his cautious compatriot somewhat sadly replied--
"Only aince, Stewart, an' that wis when we found Gold Bottom Creek, an'
ye nearly killed King Jamie o' the Thronducks wi' indegestion."
The compliment was just a trifle vague, and was regarded with suspicion
by the prime conspirator, but he said no more, and we attacked the
"puddin'" in silence, and with a vigour borne of many days' travel on
short rations.
Despite its heterogeneous nature, Stewart's culinary creation proved a
veritable triumph to his art; at any rate it quickly disappeared from
view, even Dave's share being rather grudgingly given. Never, since we
had entered the country, had we fared so well, and when coiled up in our
blankets close to the blazing fire, we felt indeed at peace with all
mankind--including the police captain. All night long we kept the flames
replenished, and dreamily gazed at each other through the curling smoke,
for our unusual surfeit had banished sleep from our eyes. And but a few
yards away from the burning logs the air was filled with dancing frost
particles that seemed to form a white wall around us, for our
thermometer, hung on a branch near by, registered forty-two degrees
below zero. The long hours of darkness dragged slowly on, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock in the morning before the faint light of day
gradually dispelled the murky gloom, yet still we lolled laggard-like by
the fire, starvation did not force us on this morning, and we had not
rested these last six hundred miles. About noon, however, we decided to
get up and have breakfast, and after many abortive attempts we succeeded
in unwinding our bodies from the blankets in which they were swathed
like Egyptian mummies.
"It wis a gorgeous banquet," ruminated Mac, as he busied himself with
the sleigh and made fast thereon various little sacks appropriated from
the tent.
"There's nae man," responded Stewart with eloquence, "kin teach me
onything aboot cooking--especially puddens."
I now thought it advisable to examine the markings on the snow where the
trail had given us so much trouble on the night before. I could not yet
understand why a tent and stores should have been left at Caribou
Crossing, one of the most gloomy spots throughout the whole course of
the Yukon. "Be lively with the breakfast, boys," I said, "for I am
inclined to think the climate thirty miles further south will be
healthier for us to-night." And I made my way out to the edge of the
forest.
I reached the lakeside without difficulty; the keen frost of the
preceding hours had given a thick crust to the deep snow-drifts
intervening; I then made a careful scrutiny of the various sleigh-runner
channels which were plainly evident, and which united at the point where
we had to diverge into the wood. A double trail led southward towards
Lake Bennet, but a single one only continued its course to Tagash
station. At once the meaning was plain. Two sleighs had started from
Bennet station, and the drifts on Caribou proving unduly deterrent, one
sleigh load had been temporarily abandoned. I remembered the two teams
of dogs in the sleigh we had met. Everything was clear in an instant.
"Yes, we'll certainly be healthier in a more southerly latitude
to-night," I said to myself as I turned to go back to my companions. The
enticing odour of an unusually appetising breakfast greeted my nostrils,
and brought back a feeling of serene contentment. But my happiness was
shortlived. I had barely reached the camp fire when I became vaguely
conscious of some disturbing element in the air. I listened intently,
then faintly sounded the tinkle of sleigh bells in the distance, and now
and again the sharp crack of a dog-whip smote the keen air. There was no
need to explain matters; even Dave whined knowingly, and backed
voluntarily into his harness.
"Jist oor luck," grumbled Stewart, grabbing the cooked bacon and
thrusting it into one of the billies.
"It's a blessed thing," quoth Mac, philosophically, "that we had such a
magnee----"
"Are you ready, boys?" I interrupted. The bells sounded sharply now, and
I could hear the irascible captain cursing on the dogs.
"I'm staunin' by the ingines," grunted Mac.
"There's naething left," said Stewart, "unless we tak' the tent."
"Then full speed ahead," I cried; "we'll camp somewhere near the head of
Lake Bennet, to-night."
With a sharp jerk the sleigh bounded forward, keeping the shelter of the
timber for the first few hundred yards, then sweeping into the open at
the entrance to Lake Bennet, we forced a trail towards Lake Linderman at
an unusually rapid rate.
ACROSS THE CHILCOOT PASS
The snow was falling in thick, blinding sheets when we reached Lake
Linderman, and struggled up the first precipitous climb leading to the
dreaded Chilcoot.
A death-like stillness lingered in the valley; the towering mountain
peaks enclosing the chain of lakes had formed ample protection from the
elements; but soon we ascended into a different atmosphere, where the
wind burst upon us with dire force, and dashed the snow in clouds
against our faces. In vain we laboured on; my comrades sank at times to
their necks in the snow, even the sleigh was half buried in the seething
masses, and rolled over continuously. I alone had snow-shoes, and for
the first time in the seven hundred miles' trail we had traversed I
strapped the long Indian "runners" to my moccasins, and endeavoured to
pad a track for the following train, but the attempt proved futile. Two
hours after leaving the lake we had barely progressed a mile, and the
air was becoming dark and heavy with the increasing fury of the gale,
which tossed the white clouds aloft, and showered them over our
sorely-tried caravan. Never had we dreamed of encountering such weather.
We had come from the silent Klondike valley, where the tempests were
hushed by the Frost King, who reigned with iron hand.
At two in the afternoon we reached timber limit, and here a few stunted
trees showed their tips above the snow, but beyond the bleak surfaces
of Deep and Long Lakes appeared bare and forbidding, and the loud shriek
of the gathering gale warned us to venture no further that day. We
hurriedly scooped a hole in the snow, and lined it with our furs; then
the sleigh was mounted as a bulwark against the drifts, and we lay down
in our strange excavation, exhausted and utterly disheartened. Mac at
length broke the silence. "We might have a fire o' some sort," he said,
looking round. Very gingerly he and his companion crawled towards the
tree-tops, and broke off the tough green branches. After much coaxing
the unwilling wood ignited, and we clustered joyfully round the pungent
smoke--for there was little else--and endeavoured to infuse some warmth
into our frozen bodies. The thick blackness of night was rapidly closing
over, and the storm showed no signs of diminishing; so we obtained what
timber we could from the tree-tops, and stored it in our shelter to feed
the feeble fire through the long dreary night. Then we thawed some snow,
and boiled a "billy" of coffee, and the warm fluid helped to sustain us
greatly; but still the wind howled and the snow pattered down on our
faces with relentless force, and the drifts from the edge of our pit
ever and anon deluged us. How we passed that night is beyond
description. We huddled near to each other for warmth, while our dog
beside us groaned and shivered violently despite all our efforts to
protect him from the icy blasts.
Morning at last arrived, but no welcome light appeared; the air
continued murky and dense with flying snow. Ten o'clock, eleven, and
twelve passed, and we were beginning to despair of getting a start that
day. Then the gloom merged into a dull grey haze, and we could
distinguish faintly through the driving mists the glacier peaks flanking
Long Lake. We had thawed snow and made coffee for breakfast, but
notwithstanding that fortification we felt ill-prepared to renew our
battle with the elements.
"We'll make another try, boys," I said, after a brief survey around. "We
may reach the summit to-day, but the chances are against it."
Dave was again harnessed to the sleigh, and with three separate ropes
attached we straggled forward on different tracks, and pulled as if for
dear life. Slowly we forged ahead over Deep Lake, staggering, stumbling,
and floundering wildly. Even Dave sank in the yielding track, and his
efforts to extricate himself would have been amusing--under different
circumstances. As we proceeded the gale increased, and almost hurled us
back, and I noted with alarm the heavy gathering clouds that seemed to
hang between us and the pass; they spread rapidly, and with them came
fresh blasts that whistled across the white lake surface, and tore it
into heaving swells even as we looked. I prayed for light, but the gloom
deepened and the snow fell thicker and faster. At length we reached the
cañon leading to Crater Lake, and with every nerve strained we fought
our way forward literally foot by foot. The snow-wreaths here were of
extraordinary depths, and several times my companions would disappear
altogether, actually _swimming_ again to the surface, for only such a
motion would sustain the body on the broken snow.
At three o'clock we had travelled but two and a half miles, and the
storm was yet rising. Had we been provided with food our position would
not have caused us much alarm, but coffee had been our lot for
forty-eight hours, and now raw coffee alone must be our portion, for we
were above timber limit, and so could have no fire. Starvation from cold
and hunger combined promised to be rather a miserable finish to our
labours. The deep breathing of my companions betrayed their sufferings;
their weakened frames could ill endure such buffetings. At every other
step they would sink in the vapoury snow, while poor Dave's muffled
howls were pitiful to hear.
"We'll have to camp again, boys," I shouted. But where could we camp,
and preserve our already freezing bodies? As I have said, we were beyond
timber limit; only the dull, drifting snow appeared on every side, and
the darkness was quickly hiding even that from view. I relinquished my
sleigh rope, and battled forward against the blizzard alone. My
snow-shoes skimmed rapidly over the treacherous drifts, but the extreme
exertion was too much for me, and I had to come to a halt. The air in
such a latitude, and at a 3,500-feet altitude, is keen enough even when
there is no blizzard raging. In the few hundred yards I had sped ahead I
had left my comrades hopelessly behind; they were blotted from my sight
as if by an impenetrable pall. Suddenly, through a cleft in the driving
sleet, I caught a glimpse of a blue glistening mass close before me. I
remembered that I was in the vicinity of the large glacier at "Happy
Camp," but the glacier had evidently "calved," for it was formerly well
up the mountain side. I staggered over to it, and felt its glassy sides
with interest; then I noticed a great cavity between the giant mass and
the mountain-ledge. It was indeed a calved glacier, and in its fall it
had formed a truly acceptable place of shelter. I cried loudly to my
companions, but only the shriek of the blizzard was my reply. I was
afraid to leave my "find" in case I might not discover it again, so I
drew my Colt Navy and fired rapidly into the air. The sound seemed dull
and insignificant in the howling storm, but a feeble bark near at hand
answered back, and through the mists loomed my doughty henchmen with
their sleigh-ropes over their shoulders, and crawling on all fours
beside the dog. They had been forced to divide their weight over the
snow in this strange fashion, and even as it was they sank at intervals
with many a gasp and splutter into the great white depths. "Happy Camp!"
I cried.
"This is an end o' us a' noo," Mac wearily groaned, staggering into the
ice cavern.
"Happy Camp" was the name derisively applied to the vicinity in the
summer. It was then the first halting stage after crossing the pass, and
as no timber existed near, no fires could be made, and hence the name.
But what it was like at this time, in midwinter, is beyond my powers to
describe. Imagine a vast glittering field of ice stretching from the
peaks above to the frozen stream below, and a small idea of its miseries
as a camping-ground is at once apparent. Yet it was a welcome shelter to
us at such a time, and we dragged the sleigh into the dark aperture
thankfully, and, wrapping ourselves in our blankets, listened to the
moaning of the storm outside. At each great rush of wind the walls of
our cave would quiver and crackle, and far overhead a deep rumbling
broke at intervals upon our ears. Our glacier home was certainly no safe
retreat, for it was gradually, yet surely, moving downwards. My
companions recognised their perilous position immediately they heard the
well-known grinding sound, but they said nothing--they were evidently of
opinion that we were as safe inside as out, and, as Stewart afterwards
grimly said, "It would hae been an easier death onywey."
The cold was very intense, and we shivered in the darkness for hours
without a word being spoken. To such an extremity had we been reduced
that Mac and Stewart assiduously chewed the greasy strips of caribou
hide which did duty as moccasin laces, while I endeavoured, but with
little success, to swallow some dry coffee. If we could only have a
fire, I reasoned, we might live to see the morning, but without it
there seemed little hope.
We had all grown apathetic, and indeed were quite resigned to a horrible
fate. I was aroused from a lethargic reverie by the piteous cries of
Dave, who remained still harnessed. I patted his great shaggy head, and
pulling my sheath-knife, cut the traces that bound him. As I did so my
hand came in contact with the sleigh, and at once a new idea flashed
over me.
"Get up, boys!" I cried. "We've forgotten that the sleigh will burn."
In an instant they were on their feet. One thought was common to us
all--we must have a fire, no matter the cost. Mac lighted a piece of
candle, and stuck it on the hard ground. Then he and Stewart attacked
the sleigh energetically, and in a few moments the snow-ship that had
borne our all for seven hundred miles was reduced to splinters. Eagerly
we clustered round as the match was applied, and fanned the laggard
flame with our breaths until it burst out cheerily, crackling and
glowing, illuminating the trembling walls of the cavern, and causing the
crystal roof to scintillate with a hundred varying hues. Sparingly Mac
fed the flame; if we could only keep it alive till morning the blizzard
might have abated. Piece by piece the wood was applied, and the feeble
fire was maintained with anxious care. Hour after hour passed, and still
the blizzard howled, and the swirling snow-drifts swept to our feet as
we bent over our one frail comfort, and protected the wavering flame
from the smothering sleet.
At various times throughout the weary hours I fancied I could hear a
faint moaning without our shelter, but the inky blackness of the night
obscured all vision, and after aimlessly groping in the snow for some
minutes after each alarm, I had to crawl back benumbed and helpless.
"It must have been the wind," said Stewart.
"There's nae man could cross the pass last night," spoke Mac.
Dave lay coiled up on my blanket apparently fast asleep. The noble
animal had had nothing to eat for two days, and I feared he would not
wake again. Suddenly, however, he started up, growling hoarsely. The
moaning sound again reached our ears, prolonged and plaintive. Then came
the sharp whistle of the blizzard, clear, decisive. There could be no
mistake. Assuredly some unfortunate was out in the cruel storm. Our
four-footed companion struggled to his feet with an effort, and swaying
erratically, he rushed from the cave whining dolefully. We gazed at each
other in silence; we dreaded the discovery we were about to make.
"Keep the fire alight as a guide to us, Mac," I said, and Stewart and I
went out into the storm. And now Dave's deep-mouthed barks penetrated
the dense mists, and we crawled towards the cañon in the direction of
the sound; but we had not far to go. A few yards from our retreat I felt
Dave's furry body at my knees, and then my hand came in contact with a
human form half buried in the drifts.
"It's a man, Stewart," I said, and he answered with a groan of sympathy.
We extricated the stiff, frozen body from the engulfing snow and dragged
it tenderly towards the light we had left; and there, in that miserable
spot, we strove to bring back the life that had all but fled.
"We have nothing to gie him," said Mac hopelessly; "an' the fire's gone
oot."
"There should be some coffee," I answered, "and the furs and my long
boots will burn."
Soon our treasured possessions smouldered and flamed; boots, moccasins,
silver-tipped furs--all that we had that would simmer or burn was
sacrificed, and a piece of ice from the wall was thawed and slowly
boiled. When the hot fluid was forced between his lips the rescued man
opened his eyes and looked around. Soon he had recovered sufficiently to
speak a few words. He had ventured across the Chilcoot, despite all
warnings from the miners at Sheep Camp. He had wandered over Crater Lake
all day, not knowing where the valley lay owing to the dense mists
prevailing. "The blizzard has been blowing on the pass for two days,"
said he; "your light attracted me last night, but I could not reach it."
Such was the tale of the poor victim of the pass; he died before
morning, despite our struggles to save him, and we felt that we could
not survive him long.
No light appeared at ten o'clock, nor was there any promise of the
blinding storm abating. Our fire had gone out, and we sat in darkness
beside the lifeless body we had saved from the snows.
"We'll make another try, boys," I said. "We may as well go under trying,
if it has to be."
Our load was small enough now; the pity was we had not lightened it
sooner. I strapped the small mail-bag to my shoulders; my comrades
carried all further impedimenta, and, leaving the dead man in his icy
vault we staggered into the darkness and forced an erratic track towards
the Chilcoot Pass. Crater Lake was reached in two hours; I could only
guess we had arrived at it by the evenness of the surface, the air was
so dense that objects could not be distinguished even a few feet
distant. I tried to fix a bearing by compass, but the attempt was
futile, the needle swaying to all points in turn, owing to the magnetic
influences around. Then we _felt_ for the mountain-side on the left, and
staggered over the blast-blown rocks and glaciers along its precipitous
steeps.
As we neared the summit the howl of the blizzard increased to a shrill,
piercing whistle, but we now were sheltered by the pass, and the fierce
blast passed overhead. All this time we forced onward through a murky
gloom with our bodies joined with ropes that we might not lose one
another. At three in the afternoon I calculated that we were near the
crucial point at which the final ascent can be negotiated, and we left
the white shores of Crater Lake and clambered up into the rushing mists
where the blizzard shrieked and moaned alternately, and hurled huge
blocks of glacier ice and frozen snow down into the Crater valley. The
top was reached at last, and no words of mine can describe the inferno
that raged on that dread summit. We lay flat on our faces and writhed
our way forward through a bubbling, foaming mass of snow and ice. Our
bodies were cut and bruised with the flying _débris_, and our clothing
was torn to rags. The blizzard had now attained an extraordinary pitch,
the mountain seemed to rock and tremble with its fury, and inch by inch
we crawled towards the perpendicular declivity leading to the
"Scales"--full eight hundred feet of almost sheer descent. Cautiously we
manoeuvred across the great glacier that rests in the Devil's
Cauldron--a cup-shaped hollow in the top of the notorious pass--and at
once the blaze of a fire burst before our eyes, illuminating the
apparently bottomless depths beyond.
The ice-field on which we lay overhung the rocks to a dangerous degree,
and I realised that we must make the descent from some other part of the
semicircular ridge. We crept back hurriedly, and as we stood gasping in
the "cauldron" before making a _détour_ to find a possible trail, a
mighty rumbling shook the pass, and we clutched at the snow around,
which flew upwards in great geyser-like columns, almost smothering us in
its descending showers. The overlapping ice had plunged into the valley,
carrying with it hundreds of tons of accumulated snow; we escaped the
powerful suction by a few yards only.
[Illustration: ON THE SAFE SIDE OF THE PASS AGAIN.
MAC--SELF--STEWART.]
When we approached the edge a second time a smooth, unbroken snowsteep
marked the trail of the glacier, and to it we consigned ourselves,
literally sliding down into the black depths. We were precipitated into
an immense wreath of snow covering the scales for over a hundred feet.
The fire had been blotted out with the icy deluge, but luckily, as we
learned later, the fire-feeders had abandoned their post long before the
avalanche had come down. Three hours later we arrived at Sheep Camp, and
entered the Mascotte saloon, where the assembled miners were clustered
round a huge stove in the centre of the room, listening to the ominous
shriek of the gale outside.
No one dared venture out that night, but in the morning the four days'
blizzard had spent itself, and we formed a party to explore the damage
done. A light railway that had been laid to the Scales was completely
demolished, and half down to Sheep Camp the channel of the Chilcoot
River was filled with enormous ice boulders. An avalanche had also
fallen on Crater Lake during the night, and when we had painfully
climbed the now bare summit the frozen plateau beyond was rent for
nearly a mile with enormous gashes over ten feet in width, and the ice
cleavage showed down as far as the eye could reach.