IN THE BIG CAMP
It was Dawson’s first Christmas eve. The Golden North Saloon was a
blaze of light. Sourdoughs from the creeks crowding the bar kept
weighers and bartenders working as they had never worked before. For in
the new order of winter mining, the sourdoughs were bent on crowding
a whole winter’s hilarity into the space of a few days and nights.
Sound filled the air, the blare of the dance hall piano as two step
and waltz crashed forth under the sure touch of the nimble fingered
Horse Face Joe, and the screech and scrape and moan of the accompanying
violin. With punctuating stabs sounded the voice of the caller as, at
someone’s vociferous demand, the music swung into a square dance. All
this was the crescendo of sound. But other sounds there were, audible,
distinguishable, blending a minor theme into the wild harmony of the
whole. The soft scraping of moccasined feet on the floor boards, the
clink and tinkle of glasses, the crackling rustle of silk petticoats
as some sourdough in a sudden excess of exuberance swung his partner
high in the air, the drone of voices, the purr of the wheel, an
occasional burst of laughter. It was a good night--as nights go--for
the pervading spirit was Fun. And the men from the creeks had earned
their fun. By the gruelling toil of their two hands they had earned it,
by the chopping of cordwood, the tending of fires, and by the gouging
and hoisting of frozen gravel from the black mouths of shafts. It was
their night, and in the fullness of their several capacities, they were
enjoying it.
At the bar the talk was of gold. “I’ve cleaned up more than an ounce to
the pan--not once, but a dozen times,” said Moosehide Charlie.
“I took five ounces out of a test pan, an’ didn’t get all the flour
gold, at that,” interrupted Camillo Bill, “an’ I’m bettin’ my whole
dump will run better than an ounce to the pan.”
“I’m tellin’ ye,” said Old Stuart Gordon, “Ye’re goin’ to see a hundred
dollars to the pan before this winter’s out.”
A general laugh followed: “Have another shot of hootch, Old Timer, an’
make it two hundred, an’ we’ll all get rich!” bantered Ace-In-The-Hole
Brent.
The old man wagged his head sagely, and redoubled his prophecy: “Aye,
an’ ye’ll see two hundred to the pan before bed rock is reached. I’m
tellin’ ye we’re right now ridin’ the biggest strike the world ever
seen. But don’t let me hinder the orderin’ of the round of drinks. A
wee bit tipple on a night like this hurts no man. Don’t the Gude Book
say ‘take a leetle wine for thy stomach’s sake’? An’ the wine not bein’
handy, we’ll have to make whusky do.”
The men laughed and drank, and the glasses were refilled, for Old
Man Gordon, as he was called by the men of the Yukon, was a general
favorite among them. He was not old, probably in his early fifties, but
his grizzled beard and grey hair made him appear a veritable patriarch
among them. For Dawson was a camp of young men. But grey hairs were
not his sole distinction. He was the only man in camp who had brought
his family with him. Originally a Hudson’s Bay Company employee, he
had married the daughter of a factor in the Mackenzie River country,
and several years before, bringing his wife and little daughter, had
built a cabin on Birch Creek. When news of the up-river strike reached
him, he abandoned his claim, loaded his family into a poling boat and
was among the first to erect a cabin in the new camp. Another thing
that differentiated him from the general run of his associates was his
religious turn of mind. The deep-rooted Calvinism of his ancestors
had taken firm hold of his rugged nature. No provocation could wring
an oath from his lips, and his conversation was liberally besprinkled
with quotations, and misquotations from “the Gude Book.” Strangely
enough, this strict Calvinism, while it held him to a certain stern
code of morals, seemed to take small offence at his occasional lapses
from sobriety. He never gambled, but there were those who laughingly
whispered that his natural Scotch canniness, more than his religion,
was responsible for his aversion to the gaming tables. Be that as it
may, gamble he would not, and the suggestion of poker or roulette
generally called forth a vehement discourse upon the frivolity and
worldliness of “riskin’ gude gold on the turn of a card or the spin of
a wheel!”
“An’ so ye think,” continued the old man, warming to the liquor “that
I’m touched i’ the head wi’ my talk of a hundred, an’ two hundred
dollars to the pan?” He paused and glared a challenge into the faces of
the five men grouped about him.
Camillo Bill laughed: “No, no, nothin’ like that, Gordon! Only if this
here camp ever feels the need of a booster’s club, I’ll sure nominate
you for the first president of it.”
“You said we was goin’ to see two hundred dollars to the pan before we
struck bed rock,” reminded Moosehide Charlie, “What’s she goin’ to run
when we do hit the bottom?”
“Ye’ll see four and five hundred dollars weighed from a single pan when
bed rock is reached,” replied Gordon, “Ye think I’m crazy--but, wait
an’ see.”
“Mebbe bed rock will be a solid floor of gold, an’ we can just blast
her out in chunks,” suggested Stoell, the gambler. “It’ll sure be hell
on the mahogany when the boys get to tossin’ them big chunks across
the bar.”
“Whoopie!” cried Bettles, “Five hundred to the pan? I sure feel rich!
Come on, boys, liquor up so I can spend some of this here fabulous
wealth! You’ll do me a favor by helpin’ me lighten my sack. I feel
weighted down with gold, an’ that’s a hell of a fix to be in.”
“It’s my turn to buy,” interrupted Camillo Bill, “Here you, Jack, shove
out a bottle! Hold on!” he cried in mock solicitude, as the bottle
thumped down on the bar. “You’ll sure have to learn to set them glasses
an’ bottles down careful. Old Man Gordon, here, has got gold comin’ in
chunks so big you’ll have to cover yer bar with boiler plate to keep
her from wearin’ out.”
“Have yer fun, ye addle pates!” grinned the old man, “But the days
ain’t far off when ye’ll be sayin’ how Old Man Gordon was the only one
that could see ahead of his nose. An’ speakin’ of b’iler plate, I wish
I had a good b’iler here right now.”
Shouts of laughter greeted the announcement. “Give him a boiler for
his, Jack. It’s my treat!” snickered Camillo Bill.
“He’s goin’ to melt ice an’ run a winter flume.”
“He’s goin’ to rig a steam h’stin’ derrick to lift them big chunks of
gold out of his shaft.”
“Borrow the boiler out of the steamboat fer the winter. They won’t need
it till spring.”
“Dogs can’t pull no such output of gold, nohow. He’s figgerin’ on
startin’ a steam sled line out to his claim.”
And so it went, one preposterous suggestion followed by a more
preposterous one. And in the centre of the group, Old Stuart Gordon
poured his drink in owlish solemnity, and let them rave.
“I believe they’re jokin’ at you, Gordon,” said Bettles, with solemn
countenance, “But, layin’ jokes aside, what in thunder do you want of a
boiler?”
“To thaw out the gravel wi’ steam,” and undisturbed, he waited for
the laughter to subside. “Ye’ll see it done,” he continued, with
conviction. “Ye’d of all laughed an’ babbled yer brainless jokes last
winter if anyone told ye there’d be winter minin’ on the Yukon. An’
now ye’re used to the winter minin’ by thawin’ the gravel wi’ cordwood
fires, an’ ye think it’ll always be thawed that way. But it won’t. It’s
a waste of wood, an’ a waste of time, an’ a waste of hard labor. Wi’ a
b’iler, now, an’ a steam hose runnin’ to the bottom of the shaft, ye
could thaw the muck an’ gravel faster, an’ use half, an’ less than half
the wood.”
The door opened and a man entered in a cloud of steam that swirled
about his knees. Shaking his hands from a pair of heavy fur mittens
which dangled upon their thongs, he fumbled at the tie strings of his
cap. He was a lean man, with the rugged leanness of perfect health, and
he advanced into the room with the springy step that bespoke perfect
coordination of tireless muscles.
“It’s MacShane!” cried Moosehide Charlie, and instantly the name passed
from lip to lip throughout the length and breadth of the room. Men
called greeting from the poker tables, the dancers paused amid the
whirl of a waltz to wave a hand at him, and the onlookers at the wheel
and the faro layouts crowded forward to the bar. The newcomer was
deluged with invitations to drink. For in the camp of the sourdoughs,
the name of MacShane was a name to conjure with.
“Merry Christmas, you trail-mushers an’ sourdoughs!” he called, “Merry
Christmas, you frost-hounds, an’ dancin’ girls!”
McCarty, owner of the Golden North Saloon rapped loudly upon the bar:
“The family’s all here!” he cried, “An’ the house buys! Mush up, an’
name yer liquor. We’re goin’ to drink to a Merry Christmas--an’ many of
’em!”
The music ceased abruptly in the middle of a dance. The girls crowded
forward on the arms of their partners, shouting greetings to MacShane,
who called most of them by name as he returned the pleasantries. As
the glasses were filled, MacShane was busy greeting old acquaintances,
recalling with unfailing accuracy the last place he had seen them. It
was: “How’s everything at Nulato?” “When did you quit the Tanana?”
“How’s everyone at Eagle?” “What’s doin’ on the White River?” and so
on, until McCarty interrupted, holding his glass aloft.
“A Merry Christmas!” he cried, and “Merry Christmas!” arose from the
throats of the crowd in a mighty surge of sound.
“Come over here, Horse Face!” cried MacShane, when the empty glasses
had been returned to the bar, “I figured you’d be here. One drink
calls for another, an’ while you’re all bunched up handy, you’ll drink
with me.” He nodded to McCarty. “Have the boys fill ’em up again,” he
ordered, “an’ we’ll drink to the luck of the camp! I want Horse Face
right here beside me so I can see that he gets a good sizeable noggin’,
’cause he’s sure got to make that old music box talk this night.” He
paused and looked around: “All set?” he asked, “Here goes, then: ‘To
the luck of the camp!’” And once more a mighty surge of sound filled
the room: “To the luck of the camp!”
Someone else wanted to buy, but MacShane laughingly shook his head:
“Not too fast!” he cried, “We all have got a day or two yet, or a week
for this here jollification, an’ we don’t want to get drunk to start
off with, ’cause if we do we’ll have to either stay drunk or feel sick,
an’ I don’t aim to do neither one. An’ besides, Christmas ain’t till
tomorrow, anyhow.”
A few ordered drinks, but for the most part the crowd, with the words
of approbation on its lips, went back to its cards, and its dancing.
MacShane joined the little group of sourdoughs, who still stood at the
forward end of the bar: “How’s everything?” he asked, “How you all
makin’ it?”
The answers were unanimously optimistic, and Camillo Bill laughed: “But
you ought to be’n here a while back an’ heard Old Man Gordon speak his
piece.”
The old Scotchman interrupted, stepping forward: “Ye’re Burr MacShane,
I take it? I’ve crossed ye’re trail, but I never had the luck to meet
up with ye.”
MacShane laughed: “I’m Burr MacShane,” he answered, “an’ where was it
you crossed my trail?”
“It was two or three years back, an’ the trail was three or four years
old, then--but still fresh.”
Moosehide Charlie grinned: “That’s the way with Old Man Gordon,” he
explained, “He mostly talks in riddles--when he ain’t prophysin’ some
fool thing or other.”
“’Tis no riddle at all, but clear as the spoken word to any man blessed
wi’ better than a louse-sized brain. Ye’ll recollect an’ old Injun
named Amos, that lives way up on the head of the Porcupine, where a
little swift river piles down out of the Nahoni Mountains?”
MacShane nodded: “Yes, I believe I do.”
“Well, there’s where I crossed ye’re trail.” He turned to the others.
“Amos broke through thin ice. A minute more an’ he’d of be’n caught by
the suck of a rapids when MacShane went in after him. He went in all
over, an’ it was thirty below, an’ no camp made!”
Exclamations broke from the lips of the men of the North as their eyes
sought MacShane’s face.
MacShane laughed: “You don’t want to believe everything an Injun tells
you. Mostly, they’re lyin’.”
“This one wasn’t,” answered Gordon, with conviction. “An’ that’s what
I meant by sayin’ yer trail is fresh yet on the Porcupine. An’ Injun
never forgets.”
“Hell! Thirty below ain’t so cold,” answered MacShane, with just a
trace of annoyance in his tone. “We got a fire built right away, an’ in
half a day we was dried out an’ good as ever. But, what’s doin’ on the
creeks? How far down you got, an’ what does she show?”
“I’m lookin’ to sluice out big in the spring,” offered Camillo Bill.
“Took five ounces out of one pan.”
“I’ve took better than an ounce out of a lot of pans,” said Moosehide
Charlie, “an’ I know I ain’t into the good stuff yet. I ain’t only
about ten foot down. But, you’d ought to heard Gordon! He says we’re
goin’ to be takin’ out a hundred dollars to the pan----”
“He said two hundred, before we struck bed rock,” interrupted Bettles.
“And five hundred dollars on bed rock,” added Ace-In-The-Hole.
“An’ wood firin’ has got too slow for him,” supplanted Camillo Bill,
“so he’s honin’ fer a boiler fer to thaw out the gravel with steam!” A
general laugh followed in which Burr MacShane did not join.
Camillo Bill was the first to notice that the newcomer’s face had
remained grave. “What do you think?” he asked, “You know more about the
game than all of us put together.”
“Has anyone hit the bottom?” asked MacShane.
“No one that I’ve heard of, an’ I reckon us fellows right here would be
down as far as any.”
“But, it’s all damn foolishness to be talkin’ about a hundred, an’
two hundred, an’ five hundred dollars to the pan,” broke in Moosehide
Charlie. “Of course we’re ridin’ the biggest strike yet--any strike is
plumb out of reason that pans an ounce. But they ain’t no call to go
boostin’ it like Gordon. What do you think?”
“I think,” answered MacShane, “that Gordon has hit it about right.”
A long moment of silence greeted the announcement, during which the
sourdoughs stared into each other’s faces, and into the face of the
speaker.
Bettles was the first to speak. He cleared his throat harshly: “Jest
say that again, will you?”
“Sure I will. I say, Gordon is right. You’ll all see it--an’ it won’t
be long till you do. I took one hundred and forty dollars out of a
single pan last evening--an’ I ain’t anywhere near to bed rock.”
Again, dead silence greeted the announcement, until suddenly Moosehide
Charlie, filling his lungs, let out a whoop, and tried to clamber onto
the bar. Bettles and Camillo Bill jerked him back.
“Keep still, you fool! Do you want to make a panic? Let ’em go ahead
with their cards an’ their dancin’. What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em
none, an’ what we do know that they don’t, may do us a lot of good.”
Moosehide subsided, and the few who had paused to glance toward the
group, resumed their play with remarks about “Moosehide feelin’ his
oats.”
Where the prophecy of Old Man Gordon had met only with laughter and
derision, the same words from the lips of Burr MacShane were accorded
nothing but respect by the men of the high North. For these men knew
MacShane. His spoken word carried weight. And when he said that they
would see from two to five hundred dollars taken from a pan, not a man
who heard the words but believed implicitly that he would see from two
to five hundred dollars taken from a pan.
“God,” breathed Bettles, and there was a nervous quaver in his voice,
“then we’re a bunch of millionaires, right here!”
MacShane nodded: “There’s men in this crowd that’ll clean up more than
a million--maybe double, and treble a million. But you want to remember
that the gravel is spotted. It ain’t all rich. The first hole I put
down didn’t show anything better than wages at twelve foot. A thousand
foot from there I panned out one hundred an’ forty dollars at five
foot. An’ I took out a half an’ ounce at the grass roots.”
Camillo Bill stared at Gordon: “You old son-of-a-gun!” he grinned, “Was
you guessin’? Or, how did you know?”
“It was a hunch,” replied the old man, “I could feel it. As the Gude
Book says, it was a vision.”
Camillo turned to MacShane: “But about the boiler?” he asked, “There
ain’t nothin’ in that boiler business, is there?”
“I don’t know anything about boilers,” admitted MacShane, “I do know
that winter minin’ is so damned new that we’d be fools to think we’ve
learnt all there is to know about it. You can bet that if steam thawin’
will work, an’ will save time an’ labor, it’s bound to come. Trouble
with us is we’re plumb ignorant. We’ve got a thing here that’s so big
we don’t know what to do with it. We can’t even realize the bigness of
it yet, let alone how to handle it. Why, I ain’t even begun to think,
an’ I can see a hundred ways to clean up big without ever puttin’ a
pick in the gravel.”
“What do you mean?” they cried, crowding close.
MacShane laughed and waved them back: “Look a here you all malamutes
an’ sourdoughs! What do you think this is, a business meetin’? This
here is Christmas eve, an’ we’re here to celebrate it. I’m goin’ to
have another drink, an’ then I’m goin’ to dance! Horse Face ain’t woke
up yet. Plenty time to talk business after a while. Let’s get Horse
Face where he belongs, an’ whoop her up!”
Someone called for the drinks, and Old Man Gordon drew on his mittens:
“I’m goin’ home,” he announced. “Ye young devils can go ahead wi’ ye’re
hullabaloo. Tomorrow is Christmas, an’ I’m goin’ to be sober. The wife
an’ kid, ye know.”
“Wife an’ kid!” exclaimed MacShane, “You got a wife an’ kid here in
this camp? A kid, did you say? A real honest to God little kid?”
“You bet he has!” cried a chorus of voices, “Purtiest little thing you
ever seen,” announced Moosehide, “’Bout so high, ain’t she, Camillo?”
He held his hand about four feet from the floor.
MacShane was looking off across the dance hall. “A little kid!” he
muttered, “Well, what do you know about that?”
“She’s eleven,” informed Gordon, “An’ she can handle a canoe, or a team
of dogs like a man. Good night, boys, I’m goin’ home. See ye tomorrow.”