HAZLETON. MIDWAY ON THE TRAIL
We were now but thirty miles from Hazleton, where our second bill of
supplies was waiting for us, and we were eager to push on. Taking the
advice of the road-gang we crossed the frail suspension bridge (which
the Indians had most ingeniously constructed out of logs and pieces
of old telegraph wire) and started down the west side of the river.
Every ravine was filled by mountain streams' foam--white with speed.
We descended all day and the weather grew more and more summer-like
each mile. Ripe strawberries lured us from the warm banks. For the
first time we came upon great groves of red cedar under which the
trail ran very muddy and very slippery by reason of the hard roots of
the cedars which never decay. Creeks that seemed to me a good field
for placer mining came down from the left, but no one stopped to do
more than pan a little gravel from a cut bank or a bar.
At about two o'clock of the second day we came to the Indian village
of Hagellgate, which stands on the high bank overhanging the roaring
river just before it empties into the Skeena. Here we got news of the
tramp who had fallen in exhaustion and was being cared for by the
Indians.
Descending swiftly we came to the bank of the river, which was wide,
tremendously swift and deep and cold. Rival Indian ferry companies
bid for our custom, each man extolling his boat at the expense of the
"old canoe--no good" of his rivals.
The canoes were like those to be seen all along the coast, that is to
say they had been hollowed from cottonwood or pine trees and
afterward steamed and spread by means of hot water to meet the
maker's idea of the proper line of grace and speed. They were really
beautiful and sat the water almost as gracefully as the birch-bark
canoe of the Chippewas. At each end they rose into a sort of neck,
which terminated often in a head carved to resemble a deer or some
fabled animal. Some of them had white bands encircling the throat of
this figurehead. Their paddles were short and broad, but light and
strong.
These canoes are very seaworthy. As they were driven across the swift
waters, they danced on the waves like leaves, and the boatmen bent to
their oars with almost desperate energy and with most excited outcry.
Therein is expressed a mighty difference between the Siwash and the
plains Indian. The Cheyenne, the Sioux, conceal effort, or fear, or
enthusiasm. These little people chattered and whooped at each other
like monkeys. Upon hearing them for the first time I imagined they
were losing control of the boat. Judging from their accent they were
shrieking phrases like these:--
"Quick, quick! Dig in deep, Joe. Scratch now, we're going
down--whoop! Hay, now! All together--swing her, dog-gone ye--SWING
HER! Now straight--keep her straight! Can't ye see that eddy? Whoop,
whoop! Let out a link or two, you spindle-armed child. Now _quick_ or
we're lost!"
While the other men seemed to reply in kind: "Oh, rats, we're a
makin' it. Head her toward that bush. Don't get scared--trust
me--I'll sling her ashore!"
A plains Indian, under similar circumstances, would have strained
every muscle till his bones cracked, before permitting himself to
show effort or excitement.
With all their confusion and chatter these little people were always
masters of the situation. They came out right, no matter how savage
the river, and the Bulkley at this point was savage. Every drop of
water was in motion. It had no eddies, no slack water. Its momentum
was terrific. In crossing, the boatmen were obliged to pole their
canoes far up beyond the point at which they meant to land; then, at
the word, they swung into the rushing current and pulled like fiends
for the opposite shore. Their broad paddles dipped so rapidly they
resembled paddle-wheels. They kept the craft head-on to the current,
and did not attempt to charge the bank directly, but swung-to
broadside. In this way they led our horses safely across, and came up
smiling each time.
We found Hazleton to be a small village composed mainly of Indians,
with a big Hudson Bay post at its centre. It was situated on a lovely
green flat, but a few feet above the Skeena, which was a majestic
flood at this point. There were some ten or fifteen outfits camped
in and about the village, resting and getting ready for the last half
of the trail. Some of the would-be miners had come up the river in
the little Hudson Bay steamer, which makes two or three trips a year,
and were waiting for her next trip in order to go down again.
The town was filled with gloomy stories of the trail. No one knew its
condition. In fact, it had not been travelled in seventeen years,
except by the Indians on foot with their packs of furs. The road
party was ahead, but toiling hard and hurrying to open a way for us.
As I now reread all the advance literature of this "prairie route," I
perceived how skilfully every detail with regard to the last half of
the trail had been slurred over. We had been led into a sort of sack,
and the string was tied behind us.
The Hudson Bay agent said to me with perfect frankness, "There's no
one in this village, except one or two Indians, who's ever been over
the trail, or who can give you any information concerning it." He
furthermore said, "A large number of these fellows who are starting
in on this trip with their poor little cayuses will never reach the
Stikeen River, and might better stop right here."
Feed was scarce here as everywhere, and we were forced to camp on the
trail, some two miles above the town. In going to and from our tent
we passed the Indian burial ground, which was very curious and
interesting to me. It was a veritable little city of the dead, with
streets of tiny, gayly painted little houses in which the silent and
motionless ones had been laid in their last sleep. Each tomb was a
shelter, a roof, and a tomb, and upon each the builder had lavished
his highest skill in ornament. They were all vivid with paint and
carving and lattice work. Each builder seemed trying to outdo his
neighbor in making a cheerful habitation for his dead.
More curious still, in each house were the things which the dead had
particularly loved. In one, a trunk contained all of a girl's
much-prized clothing. A complete set of dishes was visible in
another, while in a third I saw a wash-stand, bowl, pitcher, and
mirror. There was something deeply touching to me in all this. They
are so poor, their lives are so bare of comforts, that the
consecration of these articles to the dead seemed a greater sacrifice
than we, who count ourselves civilized, would make. Each chair, or
table, or coat, or pair of shoes, costs many skins. The set of
furniture meant many hard journeys in the cold, long days of
trailing, trapping, and packing. The clothing had a high money value,
yet it remained undisturbed. I saw one day a woman and two young
girls halt to look timidly in at the window of a newly erected tomb,
but only for a moment; and then, in a panic of fear and awe, they
hurried away.
The days which followed were cold and gloomy, quite in keeping with
the grim tales of the trail. Bodies of horses and mules, drowned in
the attempt to cross the Skeena, were reported passing the wharf at
the post. The wife of a retired Indian agent, who claimed to have
been over the route many years ago, was interviewed by my partner.
After saying that it was a terrible trail, she sententiously ended
with these words, "Gentlemen, you may consider yourselves
explorers."
I halted a very intelligent Indian who came riding by our camp. "How
far to Teslin Lake?" I asked.
He mused. "Maybe so forty days, maybe so thirty days. Me think forty
days."
"Good feed? Hy-u muck-a-muck?"
He looked at me in silence and his face grew a little graver. "Ha--lo
muck-a-muck (no feed). Long time no glass. Hy-yu stick (woods). Hy-u
river--all day swim."
Turning to Burton, I said, "Here we get at the truth of it. This man
has no reason for lying. We need another horse, and we need fifty
pounds more flour."
One by one the outfits behind us came dropping down into Hazleton in
long trains of weary horses, some of them in very bad condition. Many
of the goldseekers determined to "quit." They sold their horses as
best they could to the Indians (who were glad to buy them), and hired
canoes to take them to the coast, intent to catch one of the steamers
which ply to and fro between Skagway and Seattle.
But one by one, with tinkling bells and sharp outcry of drivers,
other outfits passed us, cheerily calling: "Good luck! See you
later," all bound for the "gold belt." Gloomy skies continued to fill
the imaginative ones with forebodings, and all day they could be seen
in groups about the village discussing ways and means. Quarrels broke
out, and parties disbanded in discouragement and bitterness. The road
to the golden river seemed to grow longer, and the precious sand more
elusive, from day to day. Here at Hazleton, where they had hoped to
reach a gold region, nothing was doing. Those who had visited the
Kisgagash Mountains to the north were lukewarm in their reports, and
no one felt like stopping to explore. The cry was, "On to Dawson."
Here in Hazleton I came upon the lame tramp. He had secured lodging
in an empty shack and was being helped to food by some citizens in
the town for whom he was doing a little work. Seeing me pass he
called to me and began to inquire about the trail.
I read in the gleam of his eye an insane resolution to push forward.
This I set about to check. "If you wish to commit suicide, start on
this trail. The four hundred miles you have been over is a summer
picnic excursion compared to that which is now to follow. My advice
to you is to stay right where you are until the next Hudson Bay
steamer comes by, then go to the captain and tell him just how you
are situated, and ask him to carry you down to the coast. You are
insane to think for a moment of attempting the four hundred miles of
unknown trail between here and Glenora, especially without a cent in
your pocket and no grub. You have no right to burden the other
outfits with your needs."
This plain talk seemed to affect him and he looked aggrieved. "But
what can I do? I have no money and no work."
I replied in effect: "Whatever you do, you can't afford to enter upon
this trail, and you can't expect men who are already short of grub to
feed and take care of you. There's a chance for you to work your way
back to the coast on the Hudson Bay steamer. There's only starvation
on the trail."
As I walked away he called after me, but I refused to return. I had
the feeling in spite of all I had said that he would attempt to
rustle a little grub and make his start on the trail. The whole
goldseeking movement was, in a way, a craze; he was simply an extreme
development of it.
It seemed necessary to break camp in order not to be eaten up by the
Siwash dogs, whose peculiarities grew upon me daily. They were indeed
strange beasts. They seemed to have no youth. I never saw them play;
even the puppies were grave and sedate. They were never in a hurry
and were not afraid. They got out of our way with the least possible
exertion, looking meekly reproachful or snarling threateningly at us.
They were ever watchful. No matter how apparently deep their slumber,
they saw every falling crumb, they knew where we had hung our fish,
and were ready as we turned our backs to make away with it. It was
impossible to leave anything eatable for a single instant. Nothing
but the sleight of hand of a conjurer could equal the mystery of
their stealing.
After buying a fourth pack animal and reshoeing all our horses, we
got our outfit into shape for the long, hard drive which lay before
us. Every ounce of superfluous weight, every tool, every article not
absolutely essential, was discarded and its place filled with food.
We stripped ourselves like men going into battle, and on the third
day lined up for Teslin Lake, six hundred miles to the north.
SIWASH GRAVES
Here in their tiny gayly painted homes
They sleep, these small dead people of the streams,
Their names unknown, their deeds forgot,
Their by-gone battles lost in dreams.
A few short days and we who laugh
Will be as still, will lie as low
As utterly in dark as they who rot
Here where the roses blow.
They fought, and loved, and toiled, and died,
As all men do, and all men must.
Of what avail? we at the end
Fall quite as shapelessly to dust.
LINE UP, BRAVE BOYS
The packs are on, the cinches tight,
The patient horses wait,
Upon the grass the frost lies white,
The dawn is gray and late.
The leader's cry rings sharp and clear,
The campfires smoulder low;
Before us lies a shallow mere,
Beyond, the mountain snow.
"_Line up, Billy, line up, boys,_
_The east is gray with coming day,_
_We must away, we cannot stay._
_Hy-o, hy-ak, brave boys!_"
Five hundred miles behind us lie,
As many more ahead,
Through mud and mire on mountains high
Our weary feet must tread.
So one by one, with loyal mind,
The horses swing to place,
The strong in lead, the weak behind,
In patient plodding grace.
"_Hy-o, Buckskin, brave boy, Joe!_
_The sun is high,_
_The hid loons cry:_
_Hy-ak--away! Hy-o!_"