COLDFOOT
At last, at the end of a long day’s toil, the trio beached their boat
on the shallows, and pitched their tent on the outskirts of the new
camp that had sprung up on the flat at the mouth of Slate Creek. They
had arrived at Coldfoot, the most northerly gold camp in the world.
Supper over, Mrs. Gordon surveyed the cluster of low log buildings, and
canvas tents: “Surely, Stuart,” she said, reflectively. “We’ll find
Burr MacShane here.”
Her husband shook his head: “An’ why d’ye think we’ll be findin’ him
here?” he asked.
“Why because Coldfoot is the very last camp. If he headed North, he’s
bound to be here. There is nothing beyond.”
Gordon smiled: “Aye, but ye do not know MacShane. Camps are nothin’ to
him. He knows the North as no other man knows it, an’ always he plays
a lone hand. ’Tis not because he does not like man, or the company of
his kind, for he does. Everywhere, by white men, an’ by red men alike,
he is held in regard. An’ when he foregathers with men he is the life
of the camp. It was him, d’ye mind, that planned an’ carried out the
Christmas ye had that year in Dawson.” He turned to the girl who had
been listening. “An’ ’twas him that lifted ye in his two hands to the
top of the piano, the better ye could see, an’ ’twas him that give ye
the doll, the prettiest doll of the lot it was, an’ he picked it out
for ye.”
Lou smiled, “I have the doll yet,” she said, “And I remember that a big
man picked me up and stood me on the piano, but I can’t remember his
face. It must be awfully lonesome for him--to be always alone.”
“It is too bad he has never married,” said Mrs. Gordon. “A man like
that would make some woman a good husband.”
“Losh, woman!” cried Gordon, “An’ who would he marry? Who are the women
he knows--Injun squaws, Eskimo klooches, an’ the strumpets of the dance
halls! MacShane would have none of them. For, he’s clean.”
“He must get his supplies at Coldfoot,” said Mrs. Gordon, “There is no
place else.”
“Aye, but ye must remember there was no Coldfoot when he passed this
way, if he ever passed.”
“What do you mean, if he ever passed?”
“I mean that the Koyukuk is not the only river that lies North from the
Yukon. There are many. An’ knowin’ MacShane by his reputation on the
trail, he may be this minute anywhere between Hudson Bay an’ Bering
Sea. An’ even if he traded in Coldfoot today, he might do his next
tradin’ at Fort MacPherson.”
“Oh, I wish we could find him and thank him for--what he did.”
“Aye, woman,” answered Gordon, heavily, “I’ve sought him this long
time. My humility weighs heavy upon me. But, as the Gude Book says,
‘Everything comes to him who waits.’ ’Tis doubtless the Lord’s will I
should carry my load long.”
Inquiry at the Commercial Company’s store revealed the fact that only
two months before MacShane had come into camp from the northward,
remained for several days, and purchasing supplies, had suddenly pulled
out.
“An where did he hit for?” asked Gordon.
“Lord knows, I don’t. Myrtle Creek, maybe. That’s where most of ’em are
hittin’ for now. There has be’n some pretty good sacks of dust brought
down off of Myrtle this summer. Goin’ to locate?”
Gordon nodded: “Aye. An’ can ye tell me how I’ll reach Myrtle Crick?”
“Sure, just follow up Slate Creek, an’ it’s the third creek that runs
into it.”
“Maybe it’s all staked?”
“No, it ain’t, there’s plenty of room there yet. They ain’t so many of
us up here, you know. It ain’t like the Yukon. The _chechakos_ an’ the
riff-raff don’t hit Coldfoot. This here country is a heap too _skookum_
fer their blood. Bettles catches about the last of them, an’ they
don’t stay there long. They hit back to the Yukon where they got more
chanct of winterin’ through. They ain’t got no guts fer the long night
an’ the strong cold. This here is a man’s country.”
“An’ Myrtle Crick,” persisted Gordon, “Is there timber for cabin logs?”
“Yes, plenty timber for cabin logs. It ain’t what you’d call big timber
or nothin’, an’ it’s kind of scatterin’ like, but you’ll find patches
here an’ there that’ll do. Now, how about your outfit?”
“I’ll be needin’ grub,” answered Gordon, “The rest I brought with me. I
came up from the Yukon in a polin’ boat.”
“In a polin’ boat!” exclaimed the trader, “Alone!”
Gordon smiled: “No, there’s three of us, my wife an’ daughter.”
“Wife an’ daughter! An’ come clean up from the Yukon in a polin’ boat!”
“Aye,” answered Gordon, “’Twas a considerable chore.”
“An’ he calls it a chore,” muttered the trader, “Like feedin’ the
dogs, or cuttin’ firewood! An’ a hell of a lot of ’em thinks they be’n
somewhere’s when they come up to Bettles on the steamboat an’ shove
a polin’ boat the rest of the way!” He suddenly thrust out his hand,
“Crim’s my name, old timer, an’ I’m proud to meet you. The boys’ll all
be proud to know you, here on the Koyukuk. You’re our kind.”
“Mine’s Gordon,” replied the Scotchman, and for the next hour Gordon
and Crim were busy with the grub list. When the last item had been
stacked up and the list checked, Gordon drew out his gold sack. “We
thought prices was high in Dawson,” he said, as he balanced the sack in
his hand, “But nothin’ as high as here.”
“No. Coldfoot’s the farthest north gold camp in the world, an’ she’s
the most expensive. These here shallow-draught steamboats that runs up
as far as Bettles can’t fetch up no hell of a load of freight, an’ they
ain’t afraid to charge fer what they do haul, an’ on top of that it’s
all got to be man-hauled in summer, an’ dog-hauled in winter fer the
seventy-five mile between here an’ Bettles. An’ all that freightin’ has
got to be added onto the Yukon prices.” The man paused and his glance
traveled from Gordon’s gold sack to his face. “You can put that up,” he
said, “These goods is charged.”
“But--you don’t know nothin’ about me. An’ besides, I don’t like to be
in debt. There’s dust enough here to pay.”
The trader nodded: “There is. But how about dogs? You didn’t bring
dogs, did you? An’ as fer the rest, I know all I need to know about
you. That’s what the Company pays me fer--to size up men. This here
will run you till Christmas, then you can come back fer more. An’
remember this, Gordon, the Koyukuk diggin’s is spotted. You might
strike it lucky the first crack out of the box, an’ you might prod
around fer a long while ’fore you strike it, but it’s here, an’ sooner
or later you’ll win.”
“How about MacShane?” inquired Gordon, “Has he struck it, yet?”
“MacShane,” the other smiled, “You can’t never tell nothin’ about Burr
MacShane. I know’d him, it’s years ago on the Lower Yukon. He might of
mushed five hundred mile to get that grub. MacShane ain’t on Myrtle.
It’s a way I’ve got--not tellin’ a party where another party is, till
I’ve got the party sized up. But, fact is, I don’t know where MacShane
come from, nor where he went. Wisht I did.”
“Why?” asked Gordon.
“Well, it’s like this. I’ve knocked around quite a bit, take it first
an’ last, tradin’ on my own hook, an’ tradin’ fer the Company, an’
I kin most generally always tell from the gold in the blower where
it come from. You’ve noticed the difference. Take the gold from the
middle Yukon--Circle, an’ Fortymile, an’ around the Chandalar, it’s
light colored gold. The up-river gold is darker, an’ the Koyukuk gold
is light colored again. But, MacShane’s gold--it was red--reddest I
ever seen. It wasn’t no Myrtle Creek gold, nor yet gold from anywheres
that’s ever be’n prospected before.”
“But, he must of got it along the river, or some crick that runs into
it,” argued Gordon. “He couldn’t pack no supplies off the river in
summer.”
The trader laughed: “MacShane can, an’ he did. He’s be’n in the country
long enough to be onto all its curves. He was Siwashin’ it. Said it
was the first time he’d seen a camp fer a year an’ a half. Didn’t know
there was a camp here even. He was hittin’ fer Bettles. Yes, sir,
MacShane comes nearer to livin’ off the country than any white man I
ever seen. Why the stuff he got wouldn’t last an ordinary man three
months, an’ I bet he can make it do fer two years.”
“But how did he get the stuff off the river?” persisted Gordon.
“Back-packin’, him an’ his dogs both. Yes, sir, he had fourteen dogs,
an’ he’d ripped up an old tent, or a tarp an’ rigged pack sacks for
’em--that’s Siwashin’ for you!”
“Aye, he’s a man!” agreed Gordon. “If he comes in again, tell him Old
Man Gordon wants to see him.”
“I’ll tell him,” answered the trader, “But I ain’t lookin’ for him
back. Leastways, not fer a year or two.”