NORTH
The journey to the Gordon claim was made in silence, and in silence
MacShane pushed aside the poles that covered the mouth of the shaft
against snow, and dropped lightly in. Peering curiously over the edge,
by the light of the glittering stars, Camillo Bill saw MacShane drop
to his knees, thrust a hand into his pocket, withdraw a sack of dust
and methodically sprinkle it into the gravel at the bottom of the
shaft. Another and another sack followed until all the gold he had won
from Gordon had been returned to the gravel, then, with the aid of the
windlass rope, he drew himself from the shaft. As he stooped to fasten
the thongs of his snowshoes Camillo Bill’s mittened hand descended upon
his shoulder with a thump that threatened to send him sprawling into
the snow:
“Well, I’ll be damned! MacShane, I--I--Oh, hell! I’ll be damned!”
“Um-hum,” grunted MacShane, regaining his feet, “I reckon we all
will--accordin’ to the preachers. But there ain’t no call to go
braggin’ about it.”
“You son-of-a-gun!” rumbled Camillo Bill, admiringly, “Gawd, I’m glad I
ain’t Moosehide!”
MacShane regarded him with a twisted grin: “Moosehide’s all right,
accordin’ to his lights,” he said, “I ain’t blamin’ him none--an’ you
ain’t got any call to blame him. You thought the same as he did--only
you took the trouble to make sure. You don’t need to say nothin’ about
this. It ain’t no one’s business but mine. It was the woman an’ the
kid--they need the dust, an’ I don’t. Hope the old man learnt his
lesson, though.”
“The hell I won’t say nothin’ about it!” cried Camillo Bill, “The hell
I won’t! It’s too good a one to keep. Jest wait till the boys hears
about it! Moosehide’s prob’ly spilt it all over the place that the
reason you wouldn’t give Old Man Gordon a run for his money was because
you wouldn’t take his word that his claim was worth what he said it was
worth without slippin’ up an’ seein’ for yourself. You wait an’ see.
I’ll bet you the drinks you won’t be near so pop’lar when you hit the
Golden North as what you have be’n.”
“I don’t give a damn what they think,” said MacShane, “Only don’t go
gettin’ excited if Gordon comes rompin’ in the first time he mucks out
his shaft, claimin’ he washed four or five hundred dollars out of a
pan. I tried to salt her even, but I reckon maybe she’s spread a little
thick in spots.”
“Maybe you don’t care what they think, but I do. It ain’t you they’d
say much to, nohow. There ain’t many of ’em would be huntin’ fer a
chance to mix it up with you. But, me, it’s different. Whenever you
wasn’t around they’d be damnin’ you off amongst theirselves, an’
knowin’ what I know an’ they don’t, I’d jest naturally have to sail in
an’ knock hell out of some of ’em an’ there’s some of ’em that could
knock hell out of me if I tried it--an’ there you are!”
MacShane laughed: “You’re all right, Camillo. But, anyway, don’t say
anything about it till I’m out of the country.”
“Out of the country!” cried Camillo Bill, “What do you mean--out of the
country?”
“Plumb out of the Yukon,” answered MacShane, “I’m hittin’ the trail.
You know how it is with me, Camillo. I kind of get tired of a place.
An’ besides it ain’t goin’ to be anyways fit to live here as soon as
spring comes, with the _chechakos_ pourin’ down the river, an’ swarmin’
all over the country.”
“You’re hittin’ the trail,” breathed Camillo, dumfounded, “An’ only
last night you was tellin’ of washin’ a hundred an’ forty dollars to
the pan! Be you plumb crazy, or what?”
“No, I ain’t crazy. Leastwise I don’t call it that, an’ I’m the only
one that wins or loses by what I do. No, it ain’t craziness, it’s jest
naturally a honin’ I’ve got to hit the trail--to go places an’ see
places, that other folks ain’t be’n to an’ seen. It’s--say, did you
ever hear the _opposite_ word to homesick?”
Camillo shook his head.
“I mean, it’s like this, some folks get homesick, just get to pinin’
an’ mopin’ to get back to the place they call home, an’ when they get
that way, an’ get it bad enough, there ain’t no place else looks good
to ’em. They’ll quit any job, or whatever they’re doin’ an’ hit back
home, an’ it don’t make no difference if home is a mud shanty. I knew
an Injun once, he was a harpooner on a whaler, an’ he drawed down more
money at the end of a voyage than all the rest of the Injuns in his
tribe thought there was in the world. But he got homesick an’ quit
cold when we run in to Valdez one time. Three or fours years later
I run onto him way back in the Kuskokwim country, an’ he was dryin’
whitefish on a rack--but he was happy. He was home, an’ his home was a
caribou hide stretched over a couple of willow sticks. Well, that’s the
way with me--only just the opposite. I never had any home that I can
remember. I run away from a foundlin’ home when I was somewheres around
eight or nine, an’ I’ve be’n goin’ ever since. I reckon at first, I
kep’ on the move because I didn’t want ’em to get me an’ take me back
there, an’ after a while it got to be a habit. Till now it’s got so
that after I’ve be’n in a place a while, I get homesick for someplace I
ain’t never seen. I used to try to buck it, but it wasn’t any use. I’ve
be’n in a lot of good places--places that ought to satisfy any man, but
I’ve never be’n satisfied, an’ it ain’t long till I’d hit the trail.”
“But, man, the gold! A hundred an’ forty dollars to the pan an’ you
ain’t nowheres near the bottom! There ain’t nothin’ like it ever be’n
heard of before! Where in hell are you ever goin’ to make another
strike like that?”
“Maybe I won’t,” replied MacShane, gravely, “An’ then, again, maybe I
will.”
“There ain’t nothin’ like it in the world!”
“Maybe that’s true, an’ maybe it ain’t. There ain’t no one can prove
it. A year ago there wasn’t any such thing as a hundred dollars to
the pan in the world. Next year or next month, I may be takin’ out a
thousan’ dollars to the pan, a thousand miles from here--an’ I may not
be takin’ out wages.”
“Where you goin’, an’ when?” asked Camillo Bill.
“North,” answered MacShane, “That’s all I know about it myself. The
hunch I’ve got now says North, an’ North I go--North to God knows
where!”
“When?”
“Tonight!”
“Tonight! Ain’t you going back to yer claim?”
“No. The hunch is pullin’ strong. I didn’t know when I left I wasn’t
goin’ back or I’d have brought along some more stuff, but, shucks,
there ain’t nothin’ there that I can’t get somewheres else, so I’ll let
her stay.”
“What you goin’ to do with your claim?”
“Sell it.”
“Who to?”
“You, if you want it. I’ll give you first chance at it. I figure
there’s over a hundred thousand in the dump, an’ a lot more in the
ground--maybe half a million, maybe two million, I don’t know.”
“What do you want for it?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
“That’s more than I can swing,” said Camillo, regretfully.
“How much you got?”
“Nothin’ to speak of, right now. My dump has got a lot of good stuff
in it, but I can’t get it out till spring. An’ my claim is good for a
whole lot more. But dumps an’ claims don’t do you any good.”
“None whatever,” laughed MacShane, “Tell you what I’ll do, we’ll go
pardners. Bunch the two claims an’ you work ’em an’ we’ll pool the
dust.”
“Mine ain’t as good as yours,” said Camillo Bill.
“I know it ain’t,” agreed MacShane, “But, you’ve got the work an’ worry
of gettin’ out the dust, an’ I ain’t. The difference in what they’re
worth will be your salary as manager of the concern, see?”
“Suits me if it suits you,” grinned Camillo Bill, “But, at that, I
think I’m gettin’ the best end of it.”
“You’re welcome to it.”
“Where North you goin’, MacShane?” asked Camillo Bill as they drew into
the outskirts of the camp, “Beyond the daylight?”
“Yes beyond, an’ way beyond. I’ll most likely hit up the Chandalar an’
cross over to the Koyukuk, an’ maybe I’ll stop there an’ maybe I’ll
keep goin’. There’s a river north of there yet, the Colville, where
there ain’t no one ever be’n. When your hunch says North, you might as
well go good an’ damn North.”
“You’ve took a hell of a pick when it comes to places to go,” grinned
Camillo, “Up there all alone in the dark, an’ the strong cold, an’
prob’ly north of timber.”
“I’d just as soon be alone, an’ I ain’t afraid of the dark, an’ I don’t
mind the strong cold, an’ I don’t aim to do any loggin’, so it won’t be
so bad. Maybe that’s where I’ll find my thousand-dollar-a-pan strike.”
“Damn sight more apt to freeze to death an’ feed the wolves,” replied
Camillo Bill, lugubriously. “Why in hell can’t you let well enough
alone an’ stay with yer claim?”
MacShane smiled: “I just told you why--or, tried to tell you. I didn’t
expect you’d understand exactly. No one does. I don’t understand it
myself. All I know is, that when a hunch comes to hit the trail, I hit
the trail--an’ that’s all there is to it.”
“Where you goin’?” asked Camillo Bill in surprise, as MacShane paused
and held out his hand before the door of the Golden North.
“I told you, I’m goin’ North,” answered MacShane, “So long!”
“But, ain’t you comin’ in? Ain’t you goin’ to say goodbye to the boys?”
“The boys won’t be particularly glad to see me. Moosehide has talked
before now. No, I’ll just slip down an’ get my outfit an’ pull. So
long, pardner, I’ll see you again--sometime!”
“So long!” cried Camillo Bill, his hand meeting MacShane’s in a mighty
grip, “But, you better wait till tomorrow, or today, rather, it’s most
two o’clock, an’ you didn’t get no sleep last night, an’ you ain’t had
none tonight.”
“Plenty of time to sleep where I’m goin’,” laughed MacShane, “up there
it’s _all_ night.”
“Good luck to you, you damned old sourdough! If I ain’t here when you
come back, your share will be in McCarty’s safe.”
MacShane waved his hand, and after watching until he was swallowed up
in the gloom, Camillo Bill opened the door and entered the Golden North
where he was at once greeted by Moosehide Charlie:
“Where’s MacShane?” he enquired.
“He pulled out,” answered Camillo Bill, shortly.
“Pulled out! Then, he never aimed to give Old Man Gordon a run fer his
money?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did he go up an’ snoop around Gordon’s claim?”
“Yup.”
Moosehide sniffed contemptuously: “Ain’t that the damndest thing you
ever seen a man do?”
“It were.”
“Well, I don’t know as I blame him none fer pullin’ back to his claim
after the way he done--an’ that’s the way most of the boys looks at it.
I don’t savvy it. If it be’n anyone else but MacShane! He’s counted
the best man in the North. Bettles says the only way he kin figger it
is that playin’ a lone hand as long as he has, it’s mebbe got to him,
here.” Moosehide touched his forehead significantly with his finger.
“Mebbe it has,” commented Camillo Bill, his eyes sweeping the room,
“Where’s everybody?”
“Most of ’em’s gone to bed,” Moosehide replied, “An’ I ain’t goin’ to
be far behind ’em. Two nights hand runnin’ is a little too strong fer
me. I got to sleep now an’ then.”
“Me, too,” agreed Camillo Bill, and together they left the saloon.