THE WOLVES AND THE VULTURES ASSEMBLE
About noon of the fiftieth day out, we came down to the bank of a
tremendously swift stream which we called the third south fork. On a
broken paddle stuck in the sand we found this notice: "The trail
crosses here. Swim horses from the bar. It is supposed to be about
ninety miles to Telegraph Creek.--(Signed) The Mules."
We were bitterly disappointed to find ourselves so far from our
destination, and began once more to calculate on the length of time
it would take us to get out of the wilderness.
Partner showed me the flour-sack which he held in one brawny fist. "I
believe the dern thing leaks," said he, and together we went over our
store of food. We found ourselves with an extra supply of sugar,
condensed cream, and other things which our friends the Manchester
boys needed, while they were able to spare us a little flour. There
was a tacit agreement that we should travel together and stand
together. Accordingly we began to plan for the crossing of this swift
and dangerous stream. A couple of canoes were found cached in the
bushes, and these would enable us to set our goods across, while we
forced our horses to swim from a big bar in the stream above.
While we were discussing these thing around our fires at night,
another tramper, thin and weak, came into camp. He was a little man
with a curly red beard, and was exceedingly chipper and jocular for
one in his condition. He had been out of food for some days, and had
been living on squirrels, ground-hogs, and such other small deer as
he could kill and roast along his way. He brought word of
considerable suffering among the outfits behind us, reporting "The
Dutchman" to be entirely out of beans and flour, while others had
lost so many of their horses that all were in danger of starving to
death in the mountains.
As he warmed up on coffee and beans, he became very amusing.
He was hairy and ragged, but neat, and his face showed a certain
delicacy of physique. He, too, was a marked example of the craze to
"get somewhere where gold is." He broke off suddenly in the midst of
his story to exclaim with great energy: "I want to do two things, go
back and get my boy away from my wife, and break the back of my
brother-in-law. He made all the trouble."
Once and again he said, "I'm going to find the gold up here or lay my
bones on the hills."
In the midst of these intense phrases he whistled gayly or broke off
to attend to his cooking. He told of his hard experiences, with pride
and joy, and said, "Isn't it lucky I caught you just here?" and
seemed willing to talk all night.
In the morning I went over to the campfire to see if he were still
with us. He was sitting in his scanty bed before the fire, mending
his trousers. "I've just got to put a patch on right now or my
knee'll be through," he explained. He had a neat little kit of
materials and everything was in order. "I haven't time to turn the
edges of the patch under," he went on. "It ought to be done--you
can't make a durable patch unless you do. This 'housewife' my wife
made me when we was first married. I was peddlin' then in eastern
Oregon. If it hadn't been for her brother--oh, I'll smash his face
in, some day"--he held up the other trouser leg: "See that patch?
Ain't that a daisy?--that's the way I ought to do. Say, looks like I
ought to rustle enough grub out of all these outfits to last me into
Glenora, don't it?"
We came down gracefully--we could not withstand such prattle. The
blacksmith turned in some beans, the boys from Manchester divided
their scanty store of flour and bacon, I brought some salt, some
sugar, and some oatmeal, and as the small man put it away he chirped
and chuckled like a cricket. His thanks were mere words, his voice
was calm. He accepted our aid as a matter of course. No perfectly
reasonable man would ever take such frightful chances as this absurd
little ass set his face to without fear. He hummed a little tune as
he packed his outfit into his shoulder-straps. "I ought to rattle
into Glenora on this grub, hadn't I?" he said.
At last he was ready to be ferried across the river, which was swift
and dangerous. Burton set him across, and as he was about to depart I
gave him a letter to post and a half-dollar to pay postage. My name
was written on the corner of the envelope. He knew me then and said,
"I've a good mind to stay right with you; I'm something of a writer
myself."
I hastened to say that he could reach Glenora two or three days in
advance of us, for the reason that we were bothered with a lame
horse. In reality, we were getting very short of provisions and were
even then on rations. "I think you'll overtake the Borland outfit," I
said. "If you don't, and you need help, camp by the road till we come
up and we'll all share as long as there's anything to share. But you
are in good trim and have as much grub as we have, so you'd better
spin along."
He "hit the trail" with a hearty joy that promised well, and I never
saw him again. His cheery smile and unshrinking cheek carried him
through a journey that appalled old packers with tents, plenty of
grub, and good horses. To me he was simply a strongly accentuated
type of the goldseeker--insanely persistent; blind to all danger,
deaf to all warning, and doomed to failure at the start.
The next day opened cold and foggy, but we entered upon a hard day's
work. Burton became the chief canoeman, while one of the Manchester
boys, stripped to the undershirt, sat in the bow to pull at the
paddle "all same Siwash." Burton's skill and good judgment enabled us
to cross without losing so much as a buckle. Some of our poor lame
horses had a hard struggle in the icy current. At about 4 P.M. we
were able to line up in the trail on the opposite side. We pressed on
up to the higher valleys in hopes of finding better feed, and camped
in the rain about two miles from the ford. The wind came from the
northwest with a suggestion of autumn in its uneasy movement. The
boys were now exceedingly anxious to get into the gold country. They
began to feel most acutely the passing of the summer. In the camp at
night the talk was upon the condition of Telegraph Creek and the
Teslin Lake Trail.
Rain, rain, rain! It seemed as though no day could pass without rain.
And as I woke I heard the patter of fine drops on our tent roof. The
old man cursed the weather most eloquently, expressing the general
feeling of the whole company. However, we saddled up and pushed on,
much delayed by the lame horses.
At about twelve o'clock I missed my partner's voice and looking about
saw only two of the packhorses following. Hitching those beside the
trail, I returned to find Burton seated beside the lame horse, which
could not cross the slough. I examined the horse's foot and found a
thin stream of arterial blood spouting out.
"That ends it, Burton," I said. "I had hoped to bring all my horses
through, but this old fellow is out of the race. It is a question now
either of leaving him beside the trail with a notice to have him
brought forward or of shooting him out of hand."
To this partner gravely agreed, but said, "It's going to be pretty
hard lines to shoot that faithful old chap."
"Yes," I replied, "I confess I haven't the courage to face him with
a rifle after all these weeks of faithful service. But it must be
done. You remember that horse back there with a hole in his flank and
his head flung up? We mustn't leave this old fellow to be a prey to
the wolves. Now if you'll kill him you can set your price on the
service. Anything at all I will pay. Did you ever kill a horse?"
Partner was honest. "Yes, once. He was old and sick and I believed it
better to put him out of his suffering than to let him drag on."
"That settles it, partner," said I. "Your hands are already imbued
with gore--it must be done."
He rose with a sigh. "All right. Lead him out into the thicket."
I handed him the gun (into which I had shoved two steel-jacketed
bullets, the kind that will kill a grizzly bear), and took the old
horse by the halter. "Come, boy," I said, "it's hard, but it's the
only merciful thing." The old horse looked at me with such serene
trust and confidence, my courage almost failed me. His big brown eyes
were so full of sorrow and patient endurance. With some urging he
followed me into the thicket a little aside from the trail. Turning
away I mounted Ladrone in order that I might not see what happened.
There was a crack of a rifle in the bush--the sound of a heavy body
falling, and a moment later Burton returned with a coiled rope in his
hand and a look of trouble on his face. The horses lined up again
with one empty place and an extra saddle topping the pony's pack. It
was a sorrowful thing to do, but there was no better way. As I rode
on, looking back occasionally to see that my train was following, my
heart ached to think of the toil the poor old horse had
undergone--only to meet death in the bush at the hands of his master.
Relieved of our wounded horse we made good time and repassed before
nine o'clock several outfits that had overhauled us during our
trouble. We rose higher and higher, and came at last into a grassy
country and to a series of small lakes, which were undoubtedly the
source of the second fork of the Stikeen. But as we had lost so much
time during the day, we pushed on with all our vigor for a couple of
hours and camped about nine o'clock of a beautiful evening, with a
magnificent sky arching us as if with a prophecy of better times
ahead.
The horses were now travelling very light, and our food supply was
reduced to a few pounds of flour and bread--we had no game and
no berries. Beans were all gone and our bacon reduced to the last
shred. We had come to expect rain every day of our lives, and were
feeling a little the effects of our scanty diet of bread and
bacon--hill-climbing was coming to be laborious. However, the way led
downward most of the time, and we were able to rack along at a very
good pace even on an empty stomach.
During the latter part of the second day the trail led along a high
ridge, a sort of hog-back overlooking a small river valley on our
left, and bringing into view an immense blue canyon far ahead of us.
"There lies the Stikeen," I called to Burton. "We're on the second
south fork, which we follow to the Stikeen, thence to the left to
Telegraph Creek." I began to compose doggerel verses to express our
exultation.
We were very tired and glad when we reached a camping-place. We could
not stop on this high ridge for lack of water, although the feed was
very good. We were forced to plod on and on until we at last
descended into the valley of a little stream which crossed our path.
The ground had been much trampled, but as rain was falling and
darkness coming on, there was nothing to do but camp.
Out of our last bit of bacon grease and bread and tea we made our
supper. While we were camping, "The Wild Dutchman," a stalwart young
fellow we had seen once or twice on the trail, came by with a very
sour visage. He went into camp near, and came over to see us. He
said: "I hain't had no pread for more dan a veek. I've nuttin' put
peans. If you can, let me haf a biscuit. By Gott, how goot dat vould
taste."
I yielded up a small loaf and encouraged him as best I could: "As I
figure it, we are within thirty-five miles of Telegraph Creek; I've
kept a careful diary of our travel. If we've passed over the Dease
Lake Trail, which is probably about four hundred miles from Hazleton
to Glenora, we must be now within thirty-five miles of Telegraph
Creek."
I was not half so sure of this as I made him think; but it gave him a
great deal of comfort, and he went off very much enlivened.
Sunday and no sun! It was raining when we awoke and the mosquitoes
were stickier than ever. Our grub was nearly gone, our horses thin
and weak, and the journey uncertain. All ill things seemed to
assemble like vultures to do us harm. The world was a grim place that
day. It was a question whether we were not still on the third south
fork instead of the second south fork, in which case we were at least
one hundred miles from our supplies. If we were forced to cross the
main Stikeen and go down on the other side, it might be even farther.
The men behind us were all suffering, and some of them were sure to
have a hard time if such weather continued. At the same time I felt
comparatively sure of our ground.
We were ragged, dirty, lame, unshaven, and unshorn--we were fighting
from morning till night. The trail became more discouraging each
moment that the rain continued to fall. There was little conversation
even between partner and myself. For many days we had moved in
perfect silence for the most part, though no gloom or sullenness
appeared in Burton's face. We were now lined up once more, taking the
trail without a word save the sharp outcry of the drivers hurrying
the horses forward, or the tinkle of the bells on the lead horse of
the train.
THE VULTURE
He wings a slow and watchful flight,
His neck is bare, his eyes are bright,
His plumage fits the starless night.
He sits at feast where cattle lie
Withering in ashen alkali,
And gorges till he scarce can fly.
But he is kingly on the breeze!
On rigid wing, in careless ease,
A soundless bark on viewless seas.
Piercing the purple storm cloud, he makes
The sun his neighbor, and shakes
His wrinkled neck in mock dismay,
And swings his slow, contemptuous way
Above the hot red lightning's play.
Monarch of cloudland--yet a ghoul of prey.
CAMPFIRES
1. _Popple_
A river curves like a bended bow,
And over it winds of summer lightly blow;
Two boys are feeding a flame with bark
Of the pungent popple. Hark!
They are uttering dreams. "I
Will go hunt gold toward the western sky,"
Says the older lad; "I know it is there,
For the rainbow shows just where
It is. I'll go camping, and take a pan,
And shovel gold, when I'm a man."
2. _Sage Brush_
The burning day draws near its end,
And on the plain a man and his friend
Sit feeding an odorous sage-brush fire.
A lofty butte like a funeral pyre,
With the sun atop, looms high
In the cloudless, windless, saffron sky.
A snake sleeps under a grease-wood plant;
A horned toad snaps at a passing ant;
The plain is void as a polar floe,
And the limitless sky has a furnace glow.
The men are gaunt and shaggy and gray,
And their childhood river is far away;
The gold still hides at the rainbow's tip,
Yet the wanderer speaks with a resolute lip.
"I will seek till I find--or till I die,"
He mutters, and lifts his clenched hand high,
And puts behind him love and wife,
And the quiet round of a farmer's life.
3. _Pine_
The dark day ends in a bitter night.
The mighty mountains cold, and white,
And stern as avarice, still hide their gold
Deep in wild canyons fold on fold,
Both men are old, and one is grown
As gray as the snows around him sown.
He hovers over a fire of pine,
Spicy and cheering; toward the line
Of the towering peaks he lifts his eyes.
"I'd rather have a boy with shining hair,
To bear my name, than all your share
Of earth's red gold," he said;
And died, a loveless, childless man,
Before the morning light began.