The Arctic Red River, a stream which has its source on the east side
of the Rocky Mountains and flows in a series of rapids and treacherous
falls into the Mackenzie, has tempted many a band of adventurous
spirits to brave its difficulties in the hope of finding that elusive
"mother-lode" which every miner is convinced exists to supply the rich
alluvial deposits that have made the fame of the Klondike fields.
A little band of three had struggled about two hundred miles up the
stream in the face of apparently insurmountable difficulties,
having to unload their boat and "portage" the whole of their year's
provisions over rocky, precipitous banks, which were often densely
wooded, or tow her up rapids, under the fierce Canadian sun, when the
strain on the rope must not be relaxed for a single moment lest the
bows of the boat should be wrenched round by the current and the
towers jerked backwards into the boiling waters.
They camped at last on a part of the bank that was low and grassy
and clear of the eternal spruce trees for a short distance. Here
they built a rough shack, laid up the boat, and took a spell of
prospecting. Into their camp on the second day limped a tattered,
woe-begone, helpless-looking individual, a Swede, who explained in
broken English, almost on the verge of tears, that he and his friends,
seeing the business-like way in which the others had prepared to meet
the difficulties of the river, had come to the conclusion that they
were old hands, and followed at a safe distance, hoping to be able to
keep modestly in the background till those in front had made a find,
and then, as the Yankee of the party put it, they were ready to "whirl
in and get the pickings of a right soft job." However, they had been
forced to come into undue prominence because their boat had become
hopelessly jammed between two rocks in a rapid and they could not move
her without help. He ended his tale of woe and stood looking from one
to the other of the three disgusted men who faced him.
"Well, of all the derndest cheek!" said the Yankee. "To explain so
nicely how they planned to jump us, and then expect help so's they can
do it!"
"We must sho'ly lend a ha-and," drawled the Southerner.
"Oh, yes," said the Englishman, the youngest of the party. "Of course
we must help the poor beggars."
It was arranged at last that Bantling and Fox, the two Americans,
should go to the rescue, while Rogers, the Englishman, kept camp.
They had dinner, and then, with the Swede as guide, started off down
the river bank to the rapids.
Left alone, Rogers washed up the dinner-things, put up some grub, got
his blanket and a rifle, and set off into the scrub. The day before,
when getting wood, he had come upon the track of a moose, and was
determined to try for a shot at him, picturing to himself the delight
of the other two when they returned, to find a store of fresh meat.
He followed the trail through a thicket of ground alder and willow,
stumbling into muskegs and bursting through tangled undergrowth. It
was frightfully hot, for this was the Canadian summer, and when he at
last reached a small clearing, through which ran a little stream from
a "sienega" or small lake higher up, he thankfully camped there for
the night.
The next morning, having had some breakfast, he found the trail of
the moose clear and straight before him, and decided to return to the
shack for more food before setting out on a hunt that might last days.
So, leaving his blanket and rifle behind, he set out. It was much
easier going back, as he had forced a fairly clear path and knew the
way. He was surprised how quickly he found himself once more at the
edge of the clearing round the camp, and was just about to cross the
open to the shack, when a curious, exasperated, whining growl made
him draw quickly back into the shadow of the trees, wishing, too late,
that he had brought his rifle with him. At the foot of one of the slim
pines upon which they had built the platform for their "cache" stood
an immense "cinnamon" bear, nearly as large as a fair-sized bull,
stretching his enormous fore-legs as far as possible above his head in
a vain endeavour to reach the dainties he could smell above him. But
though he could reach twelve good feet, the "cache" was up fifteen,
and the trees that supported it were young and slim, so that, when he
tried to get a grip to climb, his fore-paws overlapped; and no bear
can climb a tree unless it is bigger than the circle of his arm, so
that he can grip it with his claws.
If he had not been in such an awkward predicament, Rogers would
have been immensely tickled at the antics of the big brown beast. He
stretched himself upon tip-toe in his efforts to reach the platform,
giving little jumps, for all the world like a small boy in a jam
cupboard. Then he backed slowly away, staring at the unattainable with
grunts and whines, shaking his great heavy head from side to side.
Next he squatted on his haunches, as if thinking deeply; then made a
sudden rush at one of the trees and, clasping it, shook it viciously,
but finding that of no avail lost his temper completely, and gave it
an angry slap with his heavy paw, tearing off a great strip of bark.
Then he turned his back as if disgusted and, ambling to a sasketoon
bush, took the branches between his paws and pulled off the berries,
which are like bilberries, with his mouth, as daintily as a girl
eating raspberries.
But the stores upon the platform drew him once more. He tried each
tree in turn for a grip, scoring great grooves with his claws, and
rocking stiffly on all four feet in sullen anger at his failure.
Finally he started on a reconnoitring tour round the "cache," which
brought him near the tree behind which Rogers crouched, weaponless
save for a pocket-knife.
To the man's horror the bear stood suddenly still, and, throwing up
his head, sniffed suspiciously, looking round him meanwhile. Then,
with a curious twitch, he tilted the end of his great nose up and
back, thus lifting the upper lip clear of the great white fangs--an
unpleasant and terrifying trick he shares in common with the "huskie"
dog.
The perspiration streamed from every pore of the man behind the tree,
and with some vague idea of selling his life as dearly as possible he
was beginning to fumble stealthily for his pocket-knife, when, to his
inexpressible relief, the bear swung round in his tracks and trotted
back to the "cache."
[Illustration: "TO THE MAN'S HORROR THE BEAR STOOD SUDDENLY STILL,
AND, THROWING UP HIS HEAD, SNIFFED SUSPICIOUSLY."]
Here he found an empty beef tin, which he eagerly seized upon, tucking
it securely into the crook of one arm, while he investigated inside
with the other paw. Holding it between both paws, he licked the
inside, his long, red tongue worming into every crevice. Before
finally discarding it, he held it up before him on one paw, gravely
considering it.
The effect being so ludicrously like a woman taking in the points of a
new bonnet, Rogers would have found it difficult not to laugh, had not
the bear at that moment ungratefully smashed the tin flat with his paw
and, getting purposefully to his feet, started off once more towards
Rogers's sheltering tree.
The strain was beginning to tell, and the man could have shrieked
aloud for very terror. The sweat poured down his face, blinding him,
and he dared not lift a hand to wipe it away for fear of making some
tell-tale sound. On came the bear at a curious jog-trot, his heavy
head wagging to the motion, saliva dripping from his jaws.
He came within twenty feet of the tree; then, as if deliberately
playing with his victim, once more swung round and went back to the
"cache." He made no more futile attempts to reach the platform, but,
squatting on his haunches at the foot of one of the trees, appeared
to sink into a profound meditation upon the difficulties of the
situation.
There they were, the bear and the man, each crouching against a tree,
each mind busily scheming how to obtain the unobtainable--the man his
rifle, and the bear the stores.
Suddenly Rogers realized that he was hungry, and smiled grimly as he
saw that this was another point of similarity between them; the bear
was also very hungry.
The day was wearing on, and the clouds of mosquitoes that always come
with the sunset found in Rogers a victim powerless to resist. The
first cloud sounded the glad news in the shrill trumpeting buzz that
has no counterpart in sound, and clouds more came hurrying gladly to
the attack.
He was just beginning to think that if he did not die of bear he would
of mosquito, and that on the whole the bear might be the lesser evil,
when to his delight he heard, faint in the distance, the voices of the
returning rescue party.
The bear heard them too, and with many grunts and backward looks at
the "cache" rolled off into the scrub.
It was now perfectly safe for Rogers to cross the open to the shack,
but so shaken were his nerves that he could not have left the shelter
of the tree for all the gold in Canada.
He waited till he could see the figures of the returning men moving in
the scrub, and then sent forth a long hail.
"Boys! Oh, boys! Come quick and bring a gun!"
A figure halted, listened, then started at a run towards him, slipping
cartridges into a Winchester as he came. It was Fox, the Southerner,
and as he caught sight of Rogers his natural ironical speech slipped
from him.
"Why, sonny," he said, "you are sho'ly playing touchwood."
And Rogers realized with something of a shock in what a limp,
nerveless manner he was clinging to that friendly pine. He
straightened himself up with a shaky laugh.
"No," he said, "it's been puss-in-the-corner, with the biggest
cinnamon I have ever seen. He went off there to the right when he
heard you coming. For Heaven's sake, try for a shot at him."
But Fox was already off through the scrub, murmuring to himself as he
hurried, "Puss in-the-corner! My sakes! An' whatever ha-ad the young
fool done with his gun?"
Rogers crossed over to the shack, where he found Bantling anxious
to hear the trouble, but casting a concerned and hungry eye round in
search of the supper that should have been awaiting them, and was not.
However, a fire of dry pine-knots was soon lit, a frying-pan put on
with cold pork and beans, tea made, and they exchanged accounts of
adventures as they ate.
It seemed that Fox and Bantling had been led by the Swede about two
miles down the river bank, over very bad ground full of muskegs, which
are patches of slimy bog and water. When they reached the scene of the
catastrophe, they found three men calmly sitting round a fire they
had built on the bank, smoking their pipes and staring at their boat,
which they had left forlornly wedged between two rocks, not far
out from the bank, without even attempting to unload her. It was a
queer-looking craft, like an enormous punt, with a great square sail,
heaped untidily with a mixed pile of stores without any attempt at
balance. The wonder was that they had managed to get so far.
It was a typical case of incompetence expecting to succeed in a
country that will only consent to accept the best that every man has
to give. Men start off to venture up the unknown reaches of these
Arctic rivers without the slightest knowledge of what is before them.
They will vaguely announce that the only essential is "grit," and
deem such things as a knowledge of carpentry and shipbuilding and a
smattering of geology entirely superfluous.
Such a party were these four men, all their boasted grit taken clean
out of them, by hardship, sitting down before their stranded boat,
trading on the unwritten law of the wild that each man must help his
brother.
Bantling and Fox set them to work unloading, which they did with much
grumbling; then yoked them into the tow-lines and set them to haul,
while they stood up to their waists in water levering up the boat with
spruce poles. When she at last floated it was with several seams badly
sprung, which meant she had to be beached and caulked.
Having seen to this, and feeling they had done enough, the two
Americans started back, having been away nearly two days.
Bantling had just finished the account of their labours, and he and
Rogers had had supper and been back to the other clearing to fetch
the latter's blanket and rifle, when Fox strode disgustedly up to the
fire.
"Get him?" he repeated scornfully, in reply to their eager inquiries.
"Never got a sight of him. If you hadn't been so unmistakably scared
limp, Rogers, I should think you'd been pulling my leg."
Rogers, in proof of good faith, recounted his harrowing experience
once more.
"But you never left your gun behind along with your blanket?" demanded
Fox.
"Well," said Rogers, hesitatingly, "you see, it was so hot, and I was
only just coming back to see everything was all right and get some
grub. It seemed so useless to bring it up here just to lug it back."
"An' you air supposed to know the country!" was the Southerner's
comment upon these excuses, delivered in tones of deepest scorn.
For the rest of the evening, smoking round their glowing fire, the
three men raked over their memories in search of queer experiences
with which to cap the events of the day.
They turned in at last about ten o'clock. Fox and Bantling had bunks
on either side of the shack beyond the stove. Rogers's was across the
end, opposite them. He was just slipping into that moment of exquisite
rest before sleep comes when it is positive pain to be roused, when a
drawling voice said:--
"Oh, sonny, next time you go out walkin' in this little ol' country
don't use rifles to prop trees with; it's quite likely to come
expensive. An' don't get dreamin' of bears--if you can help it," he
added, with a chuckle.
A disgusted grunt was the only answer, as Rogers dived still deeper
under his blankets. "Bang!" Bantling awoke with a start and felt for
his revolver, with a vague idea of Indians. "Bang!" Something fell
with a crash and a rattle. "It's the stove-pipe," thought Bantling.
"Bang!" And he heard the thud of a bullet entering wood.
The Yankee collected his scattered wits and lit a candle. By its light
he discovered the Southerner sitting up in bed, his usually calm,
lean, brown face working with excitement, blazing wildly in every
direction.
Rogers had bolted from his bunk and was crouching in the farthest
corner. A large flake of wood chipped from a log above him had fallen
on his pillow, and lay there to show what had awakened him to the
dangers of the situation. The sheet-iron stove-pipe which carried
off the smoke through the roof hung limply in two, a shot having
undermined the strength of the joint at the elbow, and, as Bantling
was taking in all this, a tiny looking-glass that one of them had hung
on the wall fell in a tinkling shower of splinters from another shot,
while Fox muttered wildly:--
"Mind that bear! Don't let him get away on you. I've hit him once in
the shoulder."
To be shut up in a shack fourteen feet by ten with a man afflicted by
nightmare in the form of imaginary bears to be shot is not an enviable
situation, and for Rogers it was an extremely dangerous one, as Fox
was shooting straight at him. Bantling slipped from his bunk and,
striding across the hut, seized the dreamer's wrist in a paralyzing
grip. With the touch Fox's eyes, which had been wide open all the
time, lost their unseeing stare. He turned a bewildered gaze from the
hand on his wrist to the angry face above him.
"There was a bear," he explained, mildly. "Did I get him?"
"Get him!" said Bantling, wrathfully. "You fool! You nearly got
Rogers! And look at the damage you've done!"
As the situation dawned on Fox his dismay knew no bounds.
[Illustration: THE HUT WHERE THE NIGHTMARE INCIDENT HAPPENED, WITH
ROGERS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY.
_From a Photograph._
]
"I'm real sorry, you fellows," he said. "I guess I've had a touch of
the worst kind of nightmare. Bantling, you'd better take charge of my
six-shooter."
"You bet your life!" replied Bantling, briefly, but with immense
feeling, as he took possession.
"I'm real sorry," said Fox again, turning to Rogers, "to have given
you such a time. It appears it isn't me who ought to tell folks not to
dream about bears, and I guess it'll be as well for the health of you
fellows, if not my own, that I shouldn't eat quite such a hearty meal
in future just before turnin' in."
The Life of a Steeplejack.